I 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


[SCO    p.   20 

"I      THOUGHT      YOU       WOMEN       NEVER      PLAYED       FOR       PRIZES" 


THE 

WINNING  LADY 

AND  OTHERS 


BY 
MARY  E.  WILKINS  FREEMAN 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
M  CMIX 


"/  ft 


Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

fill  rights  reserved. 
Published     October,  1909. 


ws? 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


THE  WINNING  LADY 3 

LlTTLE-GlRL-AFRAID-OF-A-DoG 35 

THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 71 

BILLY  AND  SUSY 103 

THE  SELFISHNESS  OF  AMELIA  LAMKIN 125 

THE  TRAVELLING  SISTER 175 

HER  CHRISTMAS aog 

OLD  WOMAN  MAGOUN 243 

ELIZA  SAM 281 

FLORA  AND  HANNAH 307 

A  NEW-YEAR'S  RESOLUTION 321 


393803 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"l    THOUGHT    YOU    WOMEN    NEVER    PLAYED    FOR 

PRIZES" Frontispiece 

"MOTHER  SENT  THESE  EGGS,"  SAID  EMMELINE, 

IN    A    SMALL,    WEAK    VOICE Facing  p.      52 

IT   WAS  THE   FIRST  TIME   HE   HAD   EVER  INVITED 

A    GIRL    TO    GO    ANYWHERE 76 

"THIS  is  SUSY.  YOU  HAVE  GOT  MY  CAT,"  IN 
SISTED  SARAH "  106 

SHE  FAINTED  CONSIDERATELY,  AS  SHE  HAD  AL 
WAYS  DONE  EVERYTHING  ELSE  ....  140 

THE  SISTERS  DISCOURSED  OF  THE  WEATHER   .  l86 

"WHERE  DID  THAT  STOCKING  COME  FROM?" 

GASPED  JOE "  236 

"MEN  is  DIFFERENT,"  SAID  SALLY  JINKS     .     .       "       244 


THE   WINNING   LADY 


THE  WINNING  LADY 


M 


RS.  ADELINE  WYATT  stood  before  her 
long  mirror.  She  held  a  silver  -  framed 
hand-glass,  and  she  surveyed  her  head  crowned 
with  a  pretty  toque  at  every  possible  angle. 
Adeline  was  always  conscious  of  exercising 
stern  heroism  when  she  stood  before  her  mirror. 
She  spared  herself  nothing.  She  looked  un 
flinchingly  at  every  crease  in  her  chin,  every 
crow's-foot  about  her  eyes,  every  hollow  in  her 
cheeks,  also  the  little  sprays  of  marks,  as  if 
made  by  some  tiny  besom  of  time,  beneath  her 
ears.  She  faced  the  worst,  and  as  far  as  pos 
sible,  without  the  use  of  arts  which  she  despised, 
she  remedied  defects.  She  practised  before  her 
mirror  exactly  the  carriage  of  head  and  arrange 
ment  of  hair  which  were  most  becoming.  When 
her  gloves  were  adjusted  she  was  complete,  as 

3 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

perfect  a  figure  of  a  middle-aged  woman  as  one 
could  find.  She  wore  a  charming  gown  of  prune 
color.  Her  toque  was  of  prune-colored  velvet 
trimmed  with  a  knot  of  violets,  in  the  midst  of 
which  nestled  a  pink  rose.  After  Ellen  had 
helped  her  on  with  her  coat  she  practised  hold 
ing  up  her  long  skirt,  for  she  was  to  walk  to  Mrs. 
Charles  Lennox's,  where  the  Whist  Club  met 
that  afternoon.  The  Wyatts  kept  no  carriage, 
and  Adeline  never  hired  one  from  the  livery- 
stable  when  she  could  possibly  avoid  it.  Her 
husband,  Thomas  Wyatt,  was  a  comparatively 
rich  man,  but  very  parsimonious.  Adeline  had 
nothing  to  spend  upon  her  own  personal  ex 
penses  except  the  tiny  income  derived  from  her 
inheritance  from  her  father.  That  was  un 
certain.  She  never  quite  reached  two  hundred 
a  year  at  the  most,  but  Thomas  Wyatt  thought 
that  a  very  large  sum  for  a  woman  to  spend 
upon  herself.  He  thought  she  ought  to  save 
some  of  it.  He  allowed  her  ten  dollars  per 
week  for  household  expenses,  and  considered 
himself  very  generous.  There  were  only  four 
in  the  family,  including  Ellen,  the  maid.  Thomas 
Wyatt's  nephew,  Walter  Wyatt,  had  lived  with 
his  uncle  ever  since  his  parents'  death  when 
he  was  a  child,  and  Thomas  loved  him  as  his 

4 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

own  son.  Walter  had  opened  a  tiny  law  office 
on  the  main  street  of  the  village,  and  was 
struggling  hard  to  succeed  and  enable  himself 
to  marry  Violet  Ames  and  support  her  com 
fortably. 

Thomas  Wyatt  in  one  respect  was  not  par 
simonious.  He  had  never  dreamed  of  charging 
young  Walter  a  penny  for  his  board.  Adeline, 
although  she  would  have  been  distressed  had  her 
husband  proposed  such  a  measure,  was  some 
times  surprised,  and  occasionally  she  did  con 
sider,  when  she  saw  Walter  taking  flowers  to 
Violet  and  smoking  cigars,  how  many  things  she 
needed  in  her  home — that  is,  aesthetic  things. 
All  the  essentials  were  hers.  She  was  what  is 
called  "a  splendid  manager."  How  Adeline 
Wyatt  contrived  to  dress  and  set  her  table  upon 
her  income  would  have  puzzled  a  financier. 
She  might  have  made  the  matter  plainer  had 
she  told  of  her  sleepless  hours  of  planning,  and 
her  supervision  of  every  item  purchased,  and 
her  countless  schemes  for  saving.  The  prune- 
colored  gown  which  she  wore  the  day  of  the 
whist  party  was  seven  years  old.  It  had  been 
daintily  wrapped  in  tissue-paper  and  laid  away 
until  the  wheel  of  fashion  turned.  Adeline 
did  not  believe  in  spending  money  upon  re- 

5 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

modelling.  Now  long,  tight  sleeves  had  come 
into  vogue  again,  and  everybody  would  think 
the  gown  new.  When  she  was  on  the  street 
she  held  it  up  carefully,  almost  too  carefully, 
and  two  little  girls  playing  on  the  sidewalk 
stared  at  her  display  of  black  stocking,  and 
giggled  delightedly. 

Adeline  was  one  of  the  last  to  reach  the 
Lennox  house.  After  she  had  entered  the  large 
room  and  taken  a  seat,  she  regarded  many  of 
the  other  ladies  with  a  somewhat  pharisaical 
feeling.  She  noticed  that  a  hook  gaped  on  the 
collar  of  a  lady  at  another  table,  also  that  Mrs. 
John  Sears'  lace  waist  bloused  much  more 
than  the  style  allowed,  and  that  the  sleeves 
were  short,  and  Mrs.  Sears'  arms  very  thin  to 
be  displayed.  She  gave  the  slightest  glance  of 
sweet  complacency  at  her  own  nice  prune- 
colored  sleeves,  with  their  very  much  up-to-date 
ornament  of  fringe  which  she  had  made  herself. 
Then  Mrs.  Ames,  Violet's  mother,  who  was  her 
partner,  noticed  the  glance,  and  also  viewed 
the  prune-colored  gown  admiringly. 

"If  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  what  a 
perfectly  charming  gown  you  have,"  she 
said. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  replied  Adeline,  sitting 
6 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

very  straight,  and  conscious  in  every  nerve 
of  her  body  of  her  prune-colored  daintiness. 

"You  always  have  such  lovely  clothes,"  Mrs. 
Ames  went  on. 

"You  have  pretty  clothes  yourself,"  said 
Adeline. 

Mrs.  Anies  gave  a  slightly  self-conscious 
glance  at  her  own  sleeves,  which  her  dressmaker 
had  just  remodelled.  "/  always  wear  black, 
and  that  is  the  reason  why  people  cannot  tell 
when  my  gown  is  old,"  replied  Mrs.  Ames. 
"But  you  wear  different  colors." 

Adeline  smiled.  She  did  not  state  that  she 
wore  only  two  colors — gray  and  prune.  She 
was  a  subtle  woman,  and  that  choice  of  two 
colors  had  been  subtle.  She  could  be  as 
economical  and  more  so  in  her  two  colors  than 
Mrs.  Ames  in  her  invariable  black,  and  nobody 
would  suspect  her  of  economy.  She  felt  quite 
superior  to  Mrs.  Ames,  although  she  was  fond 
of  her  for  her  own  sake,  and  especially  as 
Walter's  prospective  mother  -  in  -  law.  Mrs. 
Ames'  daughter  Violet  was  there  that  afternoon, 
but  she  was  not  playing.  Violet  Ames  was  one 
of  the  sweet,  unselfish  young  girls  who  immolate 
themselves  for  the  sake  of  their  elders.  Violet, 
with  her  periwinkle-blue  eyes,  exactly  matched 

7 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

oy  her  little  blue -satin  gown  and  her  blue 
feather  in  her  hat,  flitted  from  one  table  to  an 
other,  passed  the  bonbon-dishes,  and  made  her 
self  generally  useful.  There  was  more  excite 
ment  this  afternoon  than  usual,  for  there  were 
prizes.  Generally  bridge  was  played  without 
prizes,  because  of  a  covert  fear  among  the  ladies 
that  bridge  was  a  wicked  gambling  game.  But 
Mrs.  Charles  Lennox  had  come  out  openly  with 
prizes,  and  such  prizes !  Mrs.  Ames  had  called 
Adeline's  attention  to  them  at  the  first.  "My 
dear,"  she  said,  "have  you  seen  the  prizes?" 
She  had  touched  upon  a  childish  weakness  of 
the  other  woman's  which  had  survived  the 
passage  of  time.  In  most  people  there  are 
childish  weaknesses,  or  traits,  which  survive 
time,  and  are  unconquerable  by  it.  In  Mrs. 
Adeline  Wyatt  a  love  for  presents  and  prizes 
which  had  been  strong  during  her  childhood 
endured  in  full  force.  If  she  had  worn  amid 
her  smooth  grayish  elderly  tresses  one  round 
shining  curl  of  babyhood,  it  could  not  have  been 
more  marked  than  that  trait  in  her  soul. 

She  turned  eyes  of  a  child  upon  the  prizes, 
which  were  displayed  upon  a  table  between  the 
front  windows,  then  she  gasped.  "You  don't 
mean,"  said  she,  "that — ?" 

8 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ames.  "That  cut-glass 
punch-bowl  is  the  first  prize,  and  the  second 
prize  is  that  set  of  Shakespeare.  It  does  seem 
to  me  rather  funny  that  Mrs.  Lennox  should 
think  Shakespeare  beneficial  to  people  who  play 
bridge  badly."  Mrs.  Ames  had  a  fine  sense  of 
humor.  Adeline  Wyatt  had  none  whatever. 
She  took  everything  very  seriously. 

"That  is  a  beautiful  set  of  Shakespeare," 
said  she,  "but  that  punch-bowl!"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  other  woman.  "It's  a 
beauty,  and  it  must  be  good  cut-glass,  too,  if 
Alice  Lennox  bought  it." 

Adeline  Wyatt  sighed.  The  charming  facets 
of  the  glass  punch-bowl  looked  to  her  admir 
ing  eyes  like  those  of  a  diamond.  It  stood 
in  a  window  in  full  sunlight,  and  beautiful 
rose  tints  gleamed  here  and  there  from  its 
convexities.  Adeline  Wyatt 's  eyes  had  a 
strange  expression.  All  her  life  she  had  been 
good  and  honest,  never  consumed  by  unholy 
longings,  for  her  childish  delight  in  presents 
and  prizes  could  not  be  called  unholy.  It 
was  simply  primitive  and  naive.  Now,  how 
ever,  it  took  a  different  phase.  Positive  lust 
for  that  punch -bowl  gleamed  in  Adeline's 
eyes.  It  happened  to  be  the  one  treasure  of  all 

9 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

treasures  which  she  immediately  coveted.  She 
wished  to  give  soon  a  reception  in  honor  of  her 
dear  Walter  and  his  Violet,  and  fruit  punch 
was  of  course  a  necessity  at  such  a  function. 
Everybody  in  Rawson  had  fruit  punch  at  recep 
tions.  Adeline  had  heretofore  borrowed  Mrs. 
Frank  Jennings'  punch-bowl,  but  upon  the  last 
occasion  of  her  doing  so  she  had  resolved  that 
it  was  too  much  of  a  sacrifice  to  her  pride. 
Either  Mrs.  Jennings  had  said  something  dis 
agreeable,  or  had  been  reported  so  to  have  said, 
and  Adeline  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  bor 
row  her  punch-bowl  again.  She  had  thought 
of  borrowing  one  belonging  to  Mrs.  Lennox, 
but  that  was  supposed  to  represent  such  enor 
mous  value  that  she  was  afraid.  Mrs.  John 
Sears  owned  a  punch-bowl.  Mrs.  Sears'  daugh 
ter  Jessie  had  earned  it  by  scouring  Rawson  and 
neighboring  towns  for  subscribers  for  a  certain 
brand  of  soap.  Mrs.  Sears  esteemed  the  bowl 
highly,  but  Adeline  had  doubts.  It  was  dec 
orated  crockery,  and  its  origin  was  so  widely 
known  that  it  was  not  in  much  request.  No 
body  could  say  positively  of  a  glass  bowl  that 
it  did  not  belong  to  the  giver  of  a  tea,  but  Mrs. 
Sears'  treasure,  with  its  decoration  of  splashy 
roses  in  crude  hues,  was  unmistakable. 

10 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Adeline  had  not  seen  her  way  clear  toward 
giving  a  tea  on  account  of  the  lack  of  a  punch 
bowl.  "I  ought  to  give  an  afternoon  tea  for 
Violet,  now  everybody  knows  that  she  and 
Walter  are  engaged,"  she  had  remarked,  ten 
tatively,  to  her  husband. 

"Well,  why  don't  you?"  he  had  replied. 

"There  are  various  reasons,"  said  Adeline. 
"There  are  some  things  I  ought  to  own  to  give 
such  an  affair  properly." 

"Why  don't  you  get  them?"  asked  Thomas. 

"I  need  a  punch-bowl,  and  a  really  good  one 
costs.1' 

"Oh,  get  a  good  one  while  you  are  about  it," 
said  Thomas,  and  he  spoke  with  such  entire  un 
consciousness  that  Adeline  gave  a  responsive 
murmur  and  said  no  more.  She  dared  not  ask 
Thomas  to  buy  a  punch-bowl.  He  had  such  en 
tire  faith  in  the  inexhaustibility  of  her  small  re 
sources  that  he  had  infected  her  own  line  of 
thought.  She  really  wondered  if  she  might  not 
have  money  enough  to  buy  the  bowl.  She  had 
endeavored  to  retrench  in  various  ways,  but 
had  not  been  successful.  She  had  had  a  hard 
struggle  to  keep  Ellen  from  leaving,  because 
when  she  worried  about  the  size  of  the  butter 
bill,  Ellen  had  imagined  that  her  mistress  sus- 

ii 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

pected  her  of  taking  it  home  to  her  married 
sister. 

It  seemed  now  to  Adeline  Wyatt  (although 
she  shuddered  a  little  at  the  possible  sacrilege 
of  the  fancy)  that  Providence  had  interposed. 
There  stood  the  punch-bowl,  radiating  colors 
like  a  diamond.  She  had  only  to — play  for  it. 
Adeline  set  her  mouth  hard,  a  furrow  which  she 
usually  suppressed  came  between  her  eyes,  and 
she  played.  The  worst  of  it  was,  she  was  neither 
a  good  player  nor  did  she  hold  high  cards.  As 
for  trumps,  she  had  not  even  the  advantage  of 
chicane.  When  the  first  rubber  was  finished, 
Adeline  had  held  exactly  one  honor  in  trumps, 
and  that  a  ten-spot,  and  her  partner  had  not 
fared  much  better. 

Mrs.  Ames,  who  was  optimistic,  and  did  not 
care  about  a  punch-bowl,  who  had,  in  fact,  on 
several  occasions  given  teas,  and  set  out  a  little 
table  with  cups  already  filled,  and  a  pressed 
glass  pitcher  of  punch  to  refill  them  (she  was 
economizing  for  Violet's  trousseau),  only  laugh 
ed  gayly  when  the  two  winning  ladies  passed 
on  to  a  higher  table,  and  left  her  and  Adeline 
seated  in  ignominy.  "  Small  chance  we  have 
of  that  punch-bowl,"  she  remarked,  and  laughed 
again. 

12 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

Adeline  did  not  laugh.  "No  human  being  can 
win  with  the  cards  we  have  held,"  she  returned. 

"My  last  hand  was  not  very  bad,"  said  Mrs. 
Ames.  "I  think  I  made  a  mistake  in  leading 
clubs." 

As  she  spoke  she  changed  her  place,  and  Miss 
Judith  Armstead  came  to  play  with  Adeline, 
and  Mrs.  Austin  Freer  against  her.  Adeline 
tried  to  speak  pleasantly  to  Judith,  who  was 
elderly,  always  wore  her  thin  hair  the  same 
way,  and  played  bridge  about  as  successfully 
as  she  could  have  flown.  She  knew  there  was 
no  chance  for  her  as  far  as  her  partner  was  con 
cerned.  Judith  had  acquired  bridge  too  late 
in  life.  She  was  of  abnormal  conservatism, 
and  might  have  carried  off  all  honors  at  checkers 
played  in  her  teens,  but  at  bridge  she  was  a 
dismal  object. 

However,  she  sat  up  very  straight,  showed 
all  her  cards  to  Mrs.  Freer,  who  had  a  sly,  side- 
wise  glance  for  them,  and,  it  being  her  deal, 
passed  a  no-trump  hand  of  four  aces  to  Adeline. 
Poor  Adeline  had  one  heart  and  four  spades, 
ten  high,  and  she  made  it  spades,  and  Mrs. 
Freer  doubled;  she  had  a  long  heart  suit  and  a 
guarded  king  in  clubs.  When  it  was  over, 
Adeline  glared  at  Judith. 

13 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

"Why  didn't  you  make  it  no  trumps — you 
had  four  aces?"  she  demanded. 

"I  had  no  side  cards,"  replied  Judith,  un 
disturbed.  It  was  easy  for  her  to  be  undis 
turbed.  She  boarded,  and  had  no  need  for  a 
punch-bowl.  But  although  a  truism,  fate  is 
ironic.  All  that  afternoon  Judith  Armstead, 
who  did  not  know  how  to  play,  held  the  cards. 
Adeline,  sometimes  winning,  glanced  frequently 
at  Judith's  score.  It  was  assuming  phenomenal 
proportions.  Violet  Ames,  moving  from  one 
table  to  another,  also  kept  watch  of  Judith's 
score.  Each  lady  had  her  own  score,  with  a 
little  colored  ribbon  and  pencil  attached.  The 
ladies  said  among  themselves  that  Judith  Arm- 
stead  was  sure  to  win  the  prize.  Adeline,  after 
a  little,  kept  her  score  hidden,  tucked  in  the  lace 
of  her  bodice.  Her  delicate,  well-preserved  face 
wore  an  expression  which  was  almost  like  a 
mask.  Often  the  other  ladies  would  glance  at 
her  wonderingly  and  not  know  why  they  did 
so.  Adeline  had  her  mouth  fixed  in  a  smile; 
her  eyes  were  always  intent,  crafty.  She  played 
as  she  had  never  done  before,  and  her  luck  was 
better,  but  always  at  the  end  of  a  rubber 
Judith  waved  her  little  blue  score-card  with  a 
fatuous,  irritating  smile.  Judith  began  to  grow 

14 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

excited.  Every  time  she  gathered  in  a  trick 
she  chuckled  offensively.  She  antagonized  even 
the  ladies  who  did  not  care  so  much  about 
winning  the  bowl.  Adeline,  even  if  she  were  at 
another  table,  never  once  lost  sight  of  that  blue 
score.  She  never  failed  to  hear  Judith's  latest 
record  proclaimed  in  her  high,  cackling  tone  of 
triumph,  and  always  she  evaded  a  direct  answer 
to  inquiries  respecting  her  own,  and  always 
she  kept  the  score  hidden  in  her  bodice  lace. 
The  time  drew  near  for  the  close  of  the  play. 
The  last  rubber  had  begun,  and  now  Adeline 
was  playing  with  the  worst  player  in  the  club, 
Mrs.  Leonidas  Bennett,  who  did  not  approve  of 
bridge,  and  felt  a  qualm  of  conscience  every 
time  she  put  down  a  card.  Mrs.  Bennett  had 
a  firmly  fixed  conviction  that  she  must  always 
play  second  hand  high,  and  that  she  was  a  great 
sinner  even  while  doing  that,  and  the  results 
were,  even  with  good  hands,  disastrous.  Adeline 
had  for  opponents  Judith  Armstead,  flushed 
with  victory,  her  long  score  dangling  osten 
tatiously  from  her  passementerie  trimming,  and 
Mrs.  Austin  Freer,  who  knew  how  to  play. 
Adeline  was  lucky  enough  to  secure  the  deal, 
but  her  hand  was  hopeless,  and  she  knew  if  she 
passed  it  to  her  partner  it  would  be  worse,  so 

15 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

she  made  it  spades  in  her  own  hand,  and  Mrs. 
Freer  doubled.  Adeline's  smile  never  relaxed, 
but  a  deadly  animosity  shot  through  her  at  the 
sound  of  Mrs.  Freer's  quiet  card-voice  saying 
that  she  would  double  spades. 

There  was  a  nervous  tension  all  over  the  room. 
The  gambling  atmosphere  reigned.  These  vil 
lage  women  were  playing  for  high  stakes,  and 
traits  of  roystering  ancestors  who  had  slum 
bered  for  generations  awoke.  Mild,  middle- 
aged  eyes  gleamed,  red  spots  appeared  upon 
cheeks,  sweet  middle-aged  mouths  grew  stern, 
but  Adeline  Wyatt  wore  the  face  of  the  true 
warrior  of  fate.  No  red  spots  upon  cheeks 
betrayed  her  inward  excitement,  her  mouth 
never  relaxed  from  its  smile,  her  eyes  never 
lost  their  expression  of  sly,  calm  watchfulness. 
Toward  the  last  of  the  rubber  Adeline  and  her 
partner  held  such  extraordinarily  good  cards 
that  even  stupid  play  prevailed.  Adeline  held 
repeatedly  four  aces.  She  always  made  no 
trumps  on  her  own  and  every  past  make,  and 
doubled  her  opponent's.  She  by  this  last  sunset 
glow  of  victory  made  her  attempt  at  deception 
successful.  Yes,  poor  Adeline  Wyatt,  who  had 
been  all  her  life  a  virtuous  and  God-fearing 
woman,  now  fell  for  the  first  time  before  the 

16 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

snare  of  a  glass  punch-bowl.  It  was  only  a 
very,  very  little  thing  which  she  did — merely 
the  changing  of  the  numeral  six  to  eight.  It 
required  only  one  little  curving  stroke  of  her 
pencil.  It  was  not  exactly  a  perfect  eight,  but 
it  could  not  be  mistaken  for  anything  else, 
and  it  raised  her  score  to  an  amount  sufficient 
to  overbalance  Judith  Armstead 's. 

Mrs.  Lennox  came  around  to  collect  the 
scores  then,  and  Violet  Ames  and  Mrs.  Lennox's 
maid  and  a  niece  of  Judith  Armstead  spread 
the  tables  with  nice  little  embroidered  cloths, 
and  served  ice-cream  and  cake  and  coffee. 
Afterward  there  was  a  hush,  and  Mrs.  Lennox's 
slightly  affected  although  pleasant  voice  arose. 

She  announced  that  Mrs.  Thomas  Wyatt, 
as  the  winning  lady,  had  a  claim  to  the  first 
prize,  and  Miss  Judith  Armstead  to  the  sec 
ond.  There  was  a  booby  prize,  a  book  on 
bridge,  which  Mrs.  Leonidas  Bennett  won, 
and  there  was  a  subdued  titter  as  her  name 
was  read.  Adeline  did  not  titter.  She  had 
her  mind  intent  upon  the  figures  of  the  scores 
as  read  by  Mrs.  Lennox.  Judith  Armstead, 
after  all  her  boasting,  had  either  been  misun 
derstood  by  her,  or  those  last  no-trumpers 
had  counted  for  more  than  she  had  reckoned. 

17 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Adeline  had  cheated  at  cards.  She  had  added 
to  her  score,  and  for  no  purpose.  She  would 
have  won  in  any  case.  Judith's  score  would 
not  have  equalled  hers  by  many  points.  When 
the  great  glass  bowl  was  brought  and  set  care 
fully  on  the  table  before  Adeline,  she  rose  and 
bowed  vaguely  in  response  to  the  murmur  of 
congratulation.  Judith  Armstead  was  also  ris 
ing  and  bowing.  Adeline  heard  her  remark 
that  she  had  always  wanted  to  own  a  set  of 
Shakespeare,  but  she  heard  her  as  through  a 
mist,  and  she  saw  her  new  punch-bowl  as 
through  a  mist.  She  began  to  realize  what  she 
had  done,  now  that  the  excitement  of  the  deed 
was  over.  She  had  not  only  done  a  dishonest 
deed,  but  she  had  done  it  without  need.  She 
would  have  been  the  winner  in  any  case.  It 
was  bad  enough  to  have  fallen  from  her  standard 
of  self-respect,  but  to  have  fallen  without  any 
reason!  Adeline  realized  that  she  was  not  only 
a  sinner,  but  a  fool,  and  her  realization  brought 
her  agony.  When  she  had  entered  Mrs.  Len 
nox's  house  that  afternoon  she  had  been  a  good, 
handsome,  happy,  self  -  satisfied,  within  -  the  - 
limits-of-virtue  woman.  She  would  leave  it  a 
fool  and  a  sinner;  that  she  was  becomingly  clad 
in  prune-color  would  make  not  a  whit  of  dif- 

18 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

ference.  Adeline  lost  all  sight  of  her  external 
self;  she  saw  only  her  miserable  naked  soul, 
which  had  sold  itself  for  a  miserable  glass  bowl 
that  it  could  have  owned  without  perjury. 

Ever  afterward  Adeline's  memory  of  that 
terrible  afternoon  seemed  to  stare  her  in  her 
mental  eyes  like  a  concentrated  light.  She 
could  never  forget  the  smallest  detail.  No 
matter  what  came  to  her  afterward  of  joy  or 
sorrow,  the  dinning  memory  of  that  time 
sounded  always  within  her  consciousness.  She 
remembered  exactly  what  this  one  said,  what 
that  one  said,  the  various  expressions  of  the 
various  faces  regarding  her  and  her  dishonestly 
acquired  bowl.  She  remembered  how  Judith 
Armstead  looked  with  her  set  of  Shakespeare. 
Mrs.  Lennox  sent  Adeline  and  Judith  home  with 
their  prizes  in  her  carriage,  drawn  by  a  sleek 
bay  horse  and  a  sleek  gray,  and  driven  by  a 
coachman  in  green  livery.  The  bowl  and  the 
set  of  Shakespeare  were  upon  the  seat  opposite 
the  two  ladies.  Neither  talked  much ;  indeed, 
it  was  only  a  short  drive  to  Adeline's  home. 
Judith  lived  farther.  All  that  either  woman 
said  was  to  exchange  remarks  upon  the  pleasant 
ness  of  the  occasion.  Neither  said  a  word 
about  her  prize.  When  Adeline  reached  home 

19 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

she  saw  her  husband  looking  out  of  a  sitting- 
room  window  and  beckoned,  and  he  came  out 
at  once  to  the  carriage. 

"Will  you  please  take  this  in?"  said  Adeline, 
in  a  strained  voice. 

Thomas  stared.  "Did  you  stop  at  the  store 
on  your  way  home?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  replied  Adeline.     "This  is— a  prize." 

Thomas  reached  in  and  lifted  out  the  bowl. 
He  glanced  at  the  books.  "Did  you  win  these 
too?"  he  inquired  of  his  wife,  after  speaking 
to  the  other  woman. 

"No,"  said  Adeline.  "Miss  Armstead  won 
those." 

"Oh!"  said  Thomas. 

When  he  and  Adeline  were  in  the  house, 
and  he  had  set  the  bowl  on  the  table,  he  looked 
rather  wonderingly  at  his  wife.  "I  thought 
you  women  never  played  for  prizes,"  he  ob 
served. 

"We  don't,  generally,"  said  Adeline,  "but 
Mrs.  Lennox  had  prizes  this  afternoon." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  didn't  buy  a  punch 
bowl  if  you  wanted  one,  instead  of  getting  one 
after  this  fashion,"  said  Thomas,  examining 
the  prize.  "I  don't  think  much  of  this,  any 
way;  don't  believe  it  cost  more  than  three 

20 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

dollars  and  ninety-eight  cents.  You  ought  to 
have  paid  at  least  five  dollars  and  got  some 
thing  worth  while." 

"Thomas  Wyatt!"  gasped  Adeline.  "You 
don't  suppose  Mrs.  Charles  Lennox  would  give 
a  bowl  that  cost  only  three  dollars  and  ninety- 
eight  cents  for  a  prize!" 

"I  don't  believe  it  cost  a  cent  more,"  said 
Thomas,  stoutly.  "It  is  always  the  people 
with  most  means  who  buy  the  cheapest  things." 
Then  he  settled  down  to  his  newspaper,  while 
Adeline  went  up-stairs  to  take  off  her  things, 
with  her  mind  dwelling  upon  this  new  contin 
gency.  She  knew  absolutely  nothing  about 
cut  glass.  Could  it  be  possible  that  she  had 
bartered  away  her  honor  and  self-respect  for 
three  dollars  and  ninety-eight  cents?  An  old 
bit  of  pious  doggerel  of  her  childhood  came  into 
her  mind: 

"It  is  a  sin  to  steal  a  pin, 
Much  more  to  steal  a  greater  thing." 

Had  she  stolen  the  pin  ? 

When  Walter  Wyatt  came  home  he  examined 
the  bowl,  and  he  differed  with  his  uncle.  He 
thought  the  bowl  had  cost  more  than  three 
dollars  and  ninety-eight  cents.  * '  She  may  have 

21 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

paid  five  dollars  for  it,"  he  said,  examining  it 
critically.  Adeline,  who  knew  what  good  cut 
glass  was  worth,  shivered. 

After  supper  Walter  went  out  as  usual  to 
call  upon  Violet  Ames.  He  came  home  in  a 
short  time.  He  had  not  been  gone  half  an  hour 
when  he  entered  the  house,  slammed  the  front 
door  after  him,  and  rushed  heavily  up-stairs 
to  his  room. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Thomas. 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Adeline, 
uneasily.  She  had  no  reason  for  her  surmise, 
but  somehow  she  connected  this  unusual  cir 
cumstance  with  the  bowl. 

"Maybe  they  have  had  a  falling  out,"  said 
Thomas.  "Well,  they  will  get  over  it."  Then 
he  resumed  reading  and  smoking. 

Adeline  was  doing  some  fancy-work.  The 
bowl  had  been  put  away  in  the  parlor,  but 
always  she  saw  it,  every  point  in  the  rosettes 
and  whorls  gleaming  out  with  their  colored 
lights.  She  worried  about  Walter.  After  a 
while  she  went  up-stairs,  and  Walter  opened  his 
door  and  spoke  to  her.  He  was  pale,  and  his 
hair  was  ruffled  wretchedly  with  his  despairing 
fingers. 

"Violet  has  broken  our  engagement,  Aunt 

22 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

Adeline,"  he  said,  in  a  choking  voice — "that  is, 
she  has  made  a  condition  which  I  can't  agree  to 
for  years  to  come,  and  it  isn't  fair  to  her  to  make 
her  wait.  I  never  was  cut  out  to  be  a  dog  in 
the  manger." 

Adeline  was  as  pale  as  he.  "What  is  the 
condition?"  she  asked. 

"She  says  she  will  not  come  here  to  live,  as 
we  have  planned.  She  is  as  set  as  can  be 
about  it.  And  I  can't  keep  her  decently  for 
years  unless  she  does.  I  won't  take  a  girl  like 
her  to  live  in  any  old  place,  though  she  did  say 
she  didn't  care  where  she  lived  as  long  as  it 
wasn't  here,  and  I  won't  be  taken  into  her 
house  to  live,  either." 

Adeline  listened,  standing  very  stiff. 

"Did  she  give  you  any  reason?"  she  said. 

Walter  shook  his  head  angrily.  "No;  she 
was  as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  A  girl  is  the  very 
dickens  when  she  gets  anything  into  her  head." 

"If  I  were  you  I  would  go  to  bed,  and  try 
and  keep  calm  to-night  and  get  some  sleep," 
said  Adeline.  "Maybe  she  will  think  better 
of  it." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Adeline,  will  you  see  her,  and  try 
to  make  her  listen  to  reason  ?  She  has  always 
thought  everything  of  you." 

23 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

44 Yes,  I  will,"  replied  Adeline. 

The  next  morning  Adeline  sent  Ellen  with  a 
note  to  Violet,  and  soon  the  young  girl  came, 
walking  wearily.  Adeline  was  at  the  front 
door  to  greet  her. 

* '  Good-morning, ' '  she  said,  in  a  curious,  scared 
voice. 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Wyatt,"  replied  Violet. 
Her  young  face  was  pale  and  wan.  She  evi 
dently  endeavored  to  speak  with  dignity,  but 
succeeded  only  in  speaking  piteously.  Adeline 
knew  that  Violet  knew. 

"Come  up-stairs  to  my  room,  please,''  said 
she. 

The  sitting-room  door  stood  open,  and 
Adeline  saw  the  young  girl  glance  in  as  she 
passed,  and  she  knew  what  she  feared  to  see 
there.  When  they  were  in  her  room  she  closed 
the  door,  and  she  and  Violet  stood  looking  at 
each  other.  It  was  strange,  but  the  innocent 
eyes  fell  before  the  guilty  ones,  fell  with  a  sort 
of  horror  and  shame  at  what  she  saw. 

Adeline  was  very  pale,  but  she  spoke  firmly. 
"Did  you  tell  Walter  that  you  would  not  come 
here  to  live  on  account  of  me?'1  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Violet,  in  a  dull  voice;  but 
as  she  spoke  the  crimson  flooded  her  soft 

24 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

young  cheeks.  "Yes,  I  was  standing  behind 
you." 

"And  you  saw?" 

Violet  nodded. 

"And  you  don't  feel  as  if  you  could  bear  to 
come  here  and  live,  and  must  break  with 
Walter?" 

Violet  nodded,  her  lips  quivered,  but  she  did 
not  weep. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Adeline,  "but  I 
have  to  live  with  myself.  I  can't  help  it." 

"Oh,  what  made — "  began  the  girl,  in  a 
piteous  voice. 

"I  don't  know —  What  makes  any  one  do 
wrong  ?  The  devil ,  perhaps . ' ' 

Suddenly  Violet  threw  her  arms  around  the 
older  woman's  neck  and  clung  to  her.  "Oh!" 
she  moaned,  "it  is  awful.  Poor  Walter!  He 
looked  so,  but  it  did  seem  as  if  I  couldn't." 

Adeline  looked  at  the  fluffy  head  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  stood  very  stiff  and  straight. 
"You  would  not  need  to  see  much  of  me,"  she 
said.  "I  think  Thomas  would  finish  off  an 
other  kitchen.  You  know  this  is  a  large 
house." 

"Oh,  say  you  are  sorry." 

"Sorry!"  echoed  the  older  woman.  "You 
3  25 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

don't  doubt  that!  Why,  I  would  gladly  die 
this  minute  to  undo  it.  But  how  can  I?" 

Violet  sobbed. 

"I  lay  awake  all  night  thinking  how  I  could 
make  amends,"  said  Adeline.  ''God  knows  I 
am  perfectly  willing  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  to 
tell  Thomas,  and  then  to  tell  the  whole  club, 
and  give  that  awful  bowl  up.  But  how  can  I  ? 
It  would  kill  Thomas.  I  am  not  afraid  of  his 
anger,  but  I  am  afraid  of  making  him  miserable 
all  the  rest  of  his  life.  It  must  be  my  punish 
ment  that  I  can't  tell.  There  is  only  one  thing 
I  can  think  of  to  make  amends — that  is,  partial 
amends." 

"What  is  it?"  sobbed  Violet.  "Oh,  dear 
Aunt  Adeline,  I  know  you  didn't  mean  to 
do  it!" 

"Yes,  I  did.  Don't  excuse  me  that  way, 
my  dear.  The  minute  I  saw  that  bowl  I  meant 
to  have  it  by  hook  or  crook.  I  never  felt  so 
in  all  my  life  before.  Now  I  know  how  people 
who  break  laws  and  do  wrong  feel.  I  shall 
never  be  hard  on  anybody  again." 

"But  you  are  sorry?" 

"Sorry!"  said  Adeline,  and  her  voice  was 
almost  scornful.  "Sorry  is  a  poor  word  for 
what  I  feel.  If  I  do  the  one  thing  I  thought  of 

26 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

that  I  can  do,  I  doubt  if  it  will  make  any  dif 
ference." 

"What  is  that?" 

"I  can  tell  Judith  Armstead  and  give  her 
the  bowl." 

"But  you  would  have  been  ahead,  anyway." 

"That  makes  no  difference.  My  intention  to 
rob  her  was  the  same." 

After  Violet  went  away,  Adeline  put  on  her 
black  serge  gown  and  her  bonnet  and  coat,  and 
went  to  see  Judith  Armstead.  Judith  saw  her 
coming.  She  boarded  with  her  niece  at  Mrs. 
Sarah  Love's.  Mrs.  Love  kept  an  exclusive 
boarding-house  wherein  were  stranded  many 
feminine  bits  of  home- wreckage.  Judith  ran 
down-stairs  and  opened  the  door.  She  had 
much  the  same  scared  expression  that  Adeline 
had  worn  at  the  sight  of  Violet. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  Mrs.  Wyatt,"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper.  "Come  up  to  my  room." 

Judith  had  two  rooms:  one  was  a  bedroom, 
the  other  was  a  sitting-room  with  a  divan  bed. 
Adeline  glanced  involuntarily  at  the  table,  and 
Judith  noticed  it. 

"No,  you  won't  see  them  there,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  quite  hoarse  with  repressed  emotion. 

27 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"I  have  put  them  away.  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
I  was  coming  over  to  see  you." 

"I  came  to  tell  you  that  the  bowl  is  yours  by 
good  rights,"  said  Adeline,  jerking  out  her 
words.  "I  cheated  yesterday.  I  changed  a 
figure  six  to  eight." 

To  Adeline's  surprise,  Judith  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  knew,"  said  she;  "that  has  been  all 
the  comfort  I  have  had — that  you  cheated  too." 

Adeline  was  mystified.  "As  it  turned  out, 
I  found  that  I  would  have  won,  after  all,"  she 
said.  "I  had  a  better  score,  though  I  didn't 
know  it,  but  what  I  did  was  just  as  bad.  I 
meant  to  cheat." 

"You  didn't  have  a  better  score,"  said 
Judith.  "You  would  have  lost  if  /  hadn't 
cheated  too,  even  if  you  hadn't  changed  that 
six  to  eight." 

Adeline  stared  at  her. 

"I  didn't  want  that  great  punch-bowl," 
said  Judith.  "What  could  I  do  with  such  a 
thing  ?  But  I  have  wanted  a  nice  set  of  Shake 
speare  ever  since  I  can  remember,  so  I  didn't 
add  to  my  score  when  I  saw  I  would  get  the  bowl 
if  I  did.  We  both  cheated,  Adeline  Wyatt. 
There  is  no  getting  around  it." 

The  two  poor  women,  convicted  of  actual 
28 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

sin  for  the  first  time  in  their  gentle  lives,  stared 
at  each  other  in  a  sort  of  duet  of  horror. 

"What  can  we  do?"  stammered  Adeline. 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  do,  except  to  keep 
still  and  bear  it,"  said  Judith.  "I  wish  I  were 
free  to  tell  it  from  the  housetops,  but  I  am  not. 
I  must  think  of  my  poor  niece.  It  would  kill 
her." 

"And  I  have  to  think  of  Thomas,"  said 
Adeline. 

"That  will  have  to  be  our  punishment — 
keeping  still,"  said  Judith;  "but  there  is  one 
comfort." 

"What?"  asked  Adeline,  hopelessly. 

"We  can  forgive  each  other." 

Adeline  brightened  a  little.  "Do  you  for 
give  me  for  wanting  to  cheat  you  ?" 

1 '  I  rather  think  I  do ;  and  do  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  but  I  didn't  want  that  great 
big  punch-bowl,  anyway." 

"And  I  didn't  want  the  Shakespeare." 

"But  we  meant  to  cheat,  just  the  same, 
and  we  did,"  said  Judith,  solemnly,  "and  we 
forgive  each  other,  and  I  don't  see  but  that  is 
about  the  only  comfort  we  can  get  out  of  it." 

The  two  women  wept  a  little,  and  when 
Adeline  left  she  and  Judith  kissed  each  other. 

29 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

The  two  broken  reeds  clung  to  each  other  for 
support,  the  two  foolish  sinners  for  strength  to 
bear  their  sin. 

When  Adeline  reached  home  she  went  into 
the  parlor  and  gazed  at  the  great  bowl,  which 
would  prick  her  with  its  facets  all  her  life. 
She  would  have  liked  to  take  the  hammer  to  it. 
She  hated  it.  She  determined  that  she,  like 
Mrs.  Ames,  would  use  a  pitcher  for  her  fruit 
punch,  and  then  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Charles  Lennox  entered.  Adeline  had  not 
heard  the  bell  ring,  and  Ellen  admitted  her 
with  no  ceremony.  Mrs.  Charles  Lennox,  who 
was  rather  magnificently  arrayed  in  a  long  mink 
coat,  cast  an  embarrassed  glance  at  the  bowl. 

"Good -morning,  Mrs.  Wyatt,"  she  said. 
Then  she  plunged  directly  into  her  subject. 
"I  am  glad  I  caught  you  looking  at  that  miser 
able  bowl,"  said  she,  "for  I  have  been  feeling 
very  uneasy  ever  since  you  won  the  prize  yes 
terday.  I  knew  you  thought  it  was  a  cut-glass 
bowl,  and — well,  it  isn't.  It  is  just  imitation, 
and  I  got  it  at  a  sale  in  the  city  for  one  dollar 
and  ninety-eight  cents;  and  the  Shakespeare 
Judith  Armstead  got  was  a  bargain,  too.  The 
set  is  not  complete.  There  is  no  Hamlet, 
and  there  are  two  As  You  Like  Its.  I  got  that 

30 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

for  a  dollar  and  forty-nine  cents.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  mean  I  have  been  feeling.  I  got  the 
prizes  as  a  sort  of  joke,  anyway.  You  know 
we  have  objected  to  having  prizes,  but  I  hap 
pened  to  come  across  the  bowl  and  Shakespeare, 
and  got  them.  Then  when  I  realized  that  you 
and  Judith  had  gone  off  thinking  you  had  real 
cut  glass  and  a  beautiful  set  of  Shakespeare,  I 
knew  I  would  have  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Wyatt?" 

Adeline  sighed  a  queer  little  relieved  sigh. 
She  was  thankful,  after  all,  that  it  was  a  pin, 
and  not  the  greater  thing.  "I  would  much 
rather  have  this  than  a  real  cut-glass  bowl," 
she  said.  "I  sha'n't  have  to  worry  about  its 
being  broken." 

After  Mrs.  Charles  Lennox  had  gone,  Adeline 
even  laughed  a  little  as  she  looked  at  the  bowl. 
It  might,  in  the  nature  of  things,  not  endure 
forever  to  torment  her  with  visible  proof  of 
her  false  dealing. 

Then  Violet  came  running  in,  and  threw 
her  arms  around  her,  and  kissed  her.  "I  came 
back,"  said  Violet,  "to  tell  you  that  I  remem 
bered,  after  I  went  home,  how  I  stole — yes, 
stole — when  I  was  a  little  girl,  one  of  my  sister 
Jennie's  hair  ribbons,  and  I  never  told  her, 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

because  /  knew  that  I  should  never  take  an 
other  as  long  as  I  lived,  but  she  could  not  know; 
and  we  all  live  in  glass  houses,  and  I  have  sent 
a  note  to  poor  dear  Walter,  and  asked  him  to 
come  to-night,  and  I  hope  he  will  forgive  me." 

''Of  course  he  will.  He  was  about  heart 
broken  last  night,"  said  Adeline.  Then  she 
added,  wistfully:  "You  will  not  mind  living  in 
the  same  house  with  me,  after  all?" 

Violet  laughed.  "Didn't  I  just  say  we  all 
lived  in  glass  houses  ?"  said  she.  "Yes,  we  will 
live  together  in  our  glass  house  and  never  throw 
stones."  Violet  was  looking  sharply  at  the 
bowl.  "If  Mrs.  Charles  Lennox  had  not 
bought  that,"  said  she,  "I  should  say  I  saw  one 
exactly  like  it  at  Jackson's  in  the  city  last  week 
for  one  dollar  and  ninety-eight  cents." 

Adeline  said  nothing.  She  gazed  soberly  at 
the  bowl;  but  the  sunlight  reflected  from  its 
sides  cast  over  her  face  a  rosy  glow,  as  of  the 
joy  which  comes  after  sinning  and  repentance. 


LITTLE-GIRL-AFRAID-OF-A-DOG 


II 
LITTLE-GIRL-AFRAID-OF-A-DOG 

THE  chickens  are  beginning  to  lay  again," 
said  Emmeline's  aunt  Martha,  "and  Em- 
meline  can  begin  carrying  eggs  over  to  the  poor 
Ticknors  to-morrow."  Martha,  who  was  quite 
young  and  pretty,  cast  a  glance  of  congratula 
tion  at  Emmeline,  as  if  she  were  proposing  a 
great  pleasure. 

Emmeline's  mother  echoed  her  sister.  "Yes, 
that  is  so,"  said  she.  "Sydney"  (Sydney  was 
the  man)  "said  yesterday  that  the  chickens 
were  laying  very  well.  To-morrow  Emmeline 
shall  begin." 

"Only  think  how  nice  it  is  going  to  be  for 
those  poor  Ticknors,  with  all  those  children, 
to  have  half  a  dozen  new-laid  eggs  every  day," 
said  Martha,  again  with  that  congratulatory 
glance  at  her  little  niece,  who  sat  beside  the 
window,  holding  her  best  doll. 

35 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

"We  shall  be  able  to  send  more  than  that 
some  days,  I  dare  say,"  said  Emmeline's  mother. 
"Maybe,  when  I  go  to  the  store,  I  will  buy  a 
pretty  new  basket  for  you  to  carry  the  eggs  in, 
dear." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Emmeline,  in  a  low  voice. 
She  sat  full  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  wintry  sun, 
and  her  whole  little  blond  head  and  delicate 
face  was  gilded  by  it.  It  was  impossible  for  her 
mother  and  her  aunt  to  see  that  she  had  turned 
very  pale.  She  kept  her  face  turned  toward  the 
window,  too,  and  when  she  said  "Yes'm"  in 
fused  a  hypocritical  tone  of  joy  into  the  word, 
although  she  was  a  most  honest  and  conscien 
tious  little  girl.  In  fact,  the  joy  was  assumed 
because  of  a  Jesuit-like  issue  of  conscience  in 
her  inner  dealings  with  herself. 

The  Ticknors,  the  poor  Ticknors,  with  the 
large  brood  of  children,  lived  about  half  a  mile 
down  the  road,  and  Emmeline's  mother  and 
aunt  esteemed  it  a  great  delight  for  her  to  carry 
eggs  to  them  when  eggs  were  plentiful.  Emme 
line  herself  never  denied  the  delight,  but  God 
alone  knew  how  glad  she  was,  how  wickedly  (she 
told  herself  that  it  was  wickedly)  glad  she  was, 
when  about  Thanksgiving-time,  when  people 
naturally  wished  to  use  more  eggs,  the  chickens, 

36 


LITTLE-GIRL-AFRAID-OF-A.DOC 

after  the  perverse  nature  of  their  race,  laid 
fewer  eggs,  and  there  were  only  enough  for  the 
family.  Then  Emmeline  had  a  respite.  She 
grew  plumper,  and  there  was  more  color  on  her 
little,  soft,  curving  cheeks.  "Emmeline  always 
seems  so  much  better  this  time  of  the  year,"  her 
mother  often  said ;  and  she  never  dreamed  why 
it  was,  although  Emmeline  could  have  told  her, 
had  it  not  been  for  her  conscience,  which  pricked 
her  on  in  spite  of  her  pains.  The  Ticknors  had 
a  dog — a  very  small  dog,  it  is  true,  but  with  a 
voice  enough  for  a  whole  pack — and  Emmeline 
was  in  mortal  terror  of  him.  He  always  barked 
at  her  when  she  went  to  carry  the  eggs,  and  he 
always  sniffed  ominously  around  her  ankles. 
Sometimes  he  made  bounds  of  vicious  yelping 
joy  at  her,  almost  reaching  her  face,  although 
he  was  a  little  dog.  Emmeline  was  a  little  girl, 
small  for  her  age,  which  was  barely  ten.  She 
was  very  much  under  the  dominion,  the  very 
loving  dominion,  of  her  mother  and  aunt.  Her 
father  was  dead.  The  Ameses — Emmeline's 
last  name  was  Ames — lived  on  a  small  farm,  and 
Sydney  managed  it.  They  were  regarded  as 
quite  rich  people  in  the  little  village  where  they 
lived,  and  they  looked  at  themselves  in  that 
light.  Therefore  they  realized  a  sense  of  duty, 

37 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

of  pleasurable  duty,  toward  the  less  fortunate 
people  around  them.  At  that  very  moment 
both  Aunt  Martha  and  Mrs.  Ames  were  sewing 
upon  garments  for  poor  people — some  strong  and 
durable  flannelette  petticoats  of  soft  pink  and 
blue.  Sometimes  Emmeline  herself  was  asked 
to  sew  a  seam  on  these  soft  garments,  and  she 
always  obeyed  with  the  utmost  docility,  al 
though  she  did  not  like  to  sew  very  well.  She 
was  a  sober,  reflective  little  girl,  not  exactly 
indolent,  but  inclined  to  sit  quite  still,  while  her 
young  mind  indulged  in  pryings  into  the  future 
and  conceptions  of  life  and  her  own  little  niche 
in  the  universal  scheme  of  things,  which  would 
have  quite  astounded  her  mother  and  her  aunt 
Martha  had  they  known  of  it.  They  saw  in 
Emmeline  only  a  darling,  obedient,  sweet  little 
girl  holding  her  doll-baby ;  not  as  she  really  was 
— lit  into  flame  by  her  own  imaginings  and  the 
sun.  Neither  dreamed  that,  as  she  sat  there 
and  said  "Yes'm"  so  prettily,  she  wras  shudder 
ing  in  her  very  soul  from  a  most  exaggerated 
fear,  stimulated  by  an  imagination  entirely 
beyond  theirs,  of  the  Ticknors'  little  dog. 

Soon  the  copper-gilt  glow  faded  from  Em 
meline 's  head  and  face,  and  she  sat,  a  pale  little 
shadow  in  the  dusk,  until  her  mother  lighted 

38 


LITTLE-GIRL- AFRAID-OF-A-DOG 

the  lamp,  and  Annie  the  maid  came  in  to 
announce  supper.  Emmeline  had  not  much 
appetite  that  night,  although  there  were  her 
favorite  fried  oysters  and  waffles.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  subject  of  the  eggs  and  the  Ticknors, 
which  caused  her  to  project  more  plainly  her 
vision  of  fear  concerning  the  little  dog,  could  not 
be  let  alone.  They  had  hardly  seated  them 
selves  at  the  table  before  Annie  spoke  of  the 
large  number  of  eggs  which  had  been  brought 
in  that  day.  Annie  had  been  with  the  Ameses 
a  long  time,  and  was  considered  quite  a  member 
of  the  family.  ' '  I  think  you  can  carry  a  dozen 
eggs  to-morrow  morning,  dear,"  Emmeline's 
mother  said,  happily. 

"Yes'm,"  replied  Emmeline. 

"Only  think  what  it  will  mean  to  those  poor 
Ticknors,"  said  Aunt  Martha. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Emmeline. 

Then  Emmeline's  mother  noticed  that  the 
child  was  not  eating  as  usual.  "Why,  Em 
meline,"  she  said,  "you  have  not  half  finished 
your  oysters." 

Emmeline  looked  helplessly  at  her  plate,  and 

said  that  she  was  not  very  hungry.     She  felt 

that    she    was    wicked    because    she    was    not 

hungry,  since  she  was  so  afraid  of  the  Ticknors' 

39 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

little  dog  that  she  did  not  want  to  carry  the 
eggs  to  them  the  next  morning,  when  they  were 
so  poor  and  needed  the  eggs  so  much. 

"If  you  don't  eat  your  oysters,  you  must 
swallow  two  raw  eggs,"  said  Emmeline's  mother, 
suddenly.  " Annie,  beat  up  two  eggs  with  a 
little  sugar  and  nutmeg  and  a  little  milk." 

Emmeline  felt  just  then  more  than  a  physical 
loathing:  she  felt  a  moral  loathing  for  anything 
in  the  shape  of  an  egg;  but  she  swallowed  the 
mixture,  which  Annie  presently  brought  to  her, 
with  her  usual  docility. 

"That  will  be  just  as  nourishing  as  the  oys 
ters,"  said  Aunt  Martha.  Aunt  Martha  had  on 
her  pretty  blue  gown.  She  was  expecting  Mr. 
John  Adams  that  evening.  It  was  Wednes 
day,  and  Mr.  John  always  came  on  Wednes 
day  and  Sunday  evenings.  Emmeline  knew 
why.  She  knew  with  a  shy  and  secret  admira 
tion,  and  a  forecast  of  Wednesday  and  Sun 
day  evenings  yet  to  be  when  some  young  man 
should  come  to  see  her.  She  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  wear  red  on  those  interesting 
occasions,  which  filled  her,  young  as  she  was, 
with  a  sweet  sense  of  mystery  and  prescience. 
She  gazed  at  pretty  Aunt  Martha,  in  her  gown 
of  soft  blue,  cut  out  in  a  tiny  square  at  the  neck, 

40 


LITTLE-GIRL- A  FRAID-OF- A- DOG 

revealing  her  long  white  throat.  She  forgot 
for  a  second  the  Ticknors  and  the  Ticknor  dog, 
which  represented  the  genuine  bugbear  of  her 
childhood.  Then  the  old  fear  overcame  her 
again.  Her  mother  regarded  her,  and  Aunt 
Martha  regarded  her;  then  the  two  women  ex 
changed  glances.  After  supper,  when  they 
were  all  on  their  way  back  to  the  sitting-room, 
Emmeline's  mother  whispered  anxiously  in 
Martha's  ear:  "She  doesn't  look  well." 

Martha  nodded  assent.  "I  don't  think  she 
has  had  enough  fresh  air  lately,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  "It  will  do  her  good  to  take  that 
morning  run  to  the  Ticknors'." 

"That  is  so,"  assented  Emmeline's  mother. 
"I'll  have  her  go  to  bed  early  to-night;  then 
right  after  breakfast  to-morrow  morning,  when 
the  air  is  fresh,  she  can  take  the  eggs  to  the 
Ticknors." 

Emmeline  went  to  bed  before  Mr.  John 
Adams  arrived.  Her  mother  tucked  her  in  and 
kissed  her,  then  blew  out  the  lamp  and  went 
down-stairs.  Emmeline  had  said  her  prayers, 
introducing,  mentally,  a  little  clause  with  regard 
to  the  Ticknor  dog.  It  was  a  piteous  little  child 
codicil  to  the  Lord's  Prayer  and  "Now  I  lay 
me,"  which  she  always  said. 
4  41 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

After  her  mother  had  gone  down-stairs  Em- 
meline  lay  awake  staring  at  the  darkness.  The 
darkness  very  soon  seemed  to  flicker  with  wild 
fire;  grotesque  faces  grinned  at  her  from  the 
midst  of  this  fire,  which  was  and  was  not.  A 
terrible  horror,  of  which  the  little  bugbear  dog 
was  the  keystone,  was  over  her.  She  wanted 
so  to  call  her  mother,  to  get  up  and  run  down 
stairs  into  the  lamp-lit  sitting-room ;  but  she  lay 
still,  stiff  and  rigid.  She  had  too  much  self-con 
trol  for  her  own  good,  young  as  she  was.  Pres 
ently  she  heard  the  distant  tinkle  of  the  front 
door  bell,  and  heard  Aunt  Martha  open  the  door 
and  greet  Mr.  John  Adams.  Again,  for  a  second, 
her  own  spirit  of  joyous  prophecy  was  over  her  ; 
but  after  Mr.  John  Adams  and  Aunt  Martha  had 
gone  into  the  parlor,  and  she  could  only  hear 
the  faint  hum  of  their  voices,  she  returned  to 
her  former  state.  However,  it  was  not  very 
long  before  her  attention  was  again  diverted. 
Mr.  John  Adams  had  a  very  deep  bass  voice. 
All  of  a  sudden  this  great  bass  was  raised.  Em- 
meline  could  not  distinguish  one  word,  but  it 
sounded  like  a  roar  to  her.  Then,  also,  she 
heard  her  aunt  Martha's  sweet,  shrill  voice,  al 
most  loud  enough  for  the  words  to  be  audible. 
Then  she  heard  doors  opening,  and  shutting 
42 


LITTLE-GIRL-  APR  AID-OF-  A-  DOG 

with  almost  a  slam;  then  she  was  certain  she 
heard  a  sob  from  the  front  entry.  Then  she 
heard  the  sitting-room  door  opened  with  a  fling, 
then  a  continuous  agitated  hum  of  conversa 
tion  between  her  mother  and  aunt.  Emmeline 
wondered  why  Mr.  John  Adams  had  gone  so 
soon,  and  why  he  had  almost  slammed  the  door, 
and  what  her  aunt  and  mother  were  talking 
about  so  excitedly.  Then,  as  she  had  not 
much  curiosity,  her  mind  reverted  to  her  own 
affairs,  and  again  the  wild-fire  of  the  darkness 
flickered  and  the  grotesque  faces  grinned  at 
her,  and  all  her  pleasant  gates  of  sleep  and 
dreams  were  guarded  against  her  by  the  Tick- 
nors'  little  dog. 

Emmeline  slept  very  little  that  night.  When 
she  did  sleep,  she  had  horrible  dreams.  Once 
she  woke  crying  out,  and  her  mother  was  stand 
ing  over  her  with  a  lighted  lamp.  "What  is 
the  matter?  Are  you  ill?"  asked  her  mother. 
Her  mother  was  much  older  than  Aunt  Martha, 
but  she  looked  very  pretty  in  her  long,  trailing 
white  robe,  with  the  lamplight  shining  upon  her 
loving,  anxious  face. 

"I  had  a  dream,"  said  Emmeline,  faintly. 

"I  guess  you  were  lying  on  your  back," 
said  her  mother.  "Turn  over  on  your  side, 
43 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

darling,  and  try  to  go  to  sleep  again.  Don't 
think  about  the  dream.  Remember  how  you 
are  going  to  carry  eggs  to  those  poor  Ticknor 
children  to-morrow  morning.  Then,  I  know, 
you  will  go  to  sleep." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Emmeline;  and  she  turned 
obediently  on  her  side,  and  her  mother  went 
out. 

Emmeline  slept  no  more  that  night.  It  was 
about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The 
Ameses  had  quite  an  early  breakfast,  at  seven 
o'clock.  Emmeline  reflected  that  in  three 
hours  she  should  be  up  and  dressed  and  at  the 
breakfast-table;  that  breakfast  would  take 
about  half  an  hour;  that  in  about  three  hours 
and  a  half  she  would  be  on  her  way  to  the 
Ticknors'.  She  felt  almost  as  a  condemned 
criminal  might  have  felt  on  the  morning  of  his 
execution. 

When  she  went  laggingly  down-stairs,  as 
Annie  played  a  discordant  chime  on  the  string 
of  Japanese  bells,  she  felt  weak  and  was  very 
pale.  Her  mother  and  Martha,  who  herself 
looked  wretched,  as  if  she  had  been  weeping  all 
night,  glanced  at  her,  then  again  at  each  other. 
"It  will  do  her  good  to  get  out  in  the  fresh 
air,"  said  Martha,  stifling  a  heavy  sigh. 

44 


LITTLE-GIRL- APR  AID-OF- A- DOG 

Emmeline's  mother  looked  commiseratingly 
at  her  sister.  "Why  don't  you  slip  on  your 
brown  gown  and  go  with  her,  dear?"  she  said. 
"  You  look  as  if  the  air  would  do  you  good,  too." 

Annie,  coming  in  with  the  eggs,  cast  a  sharp 
glance  of  mingled  indignation  and  sympathy 
at  Miss  Martha.  She  knew  perfectly  well  what 
the  matter  was.  She  had  abnormally  good 
ears,  and  had  been  in  the  dining-room,  the  even 
ing  before,  when  Mr.  John  Adams  was  in  the 
parlor  with  Miss  Martha,  and  there  was  a  door 
between,  a  badly  hung  door,  with  cracks  in  it, 
and  she  had  heard.  She  had  not  meant  to  listen, 
although  she  felt  that  all  the  affairs  of  the 
Ames  family  were  her  own,  and  she  had  a  per 
fect  right  to  know  about  them.  She  knew  that 
Mr.  John  Adams  had  been  talking  about  where 
he  and  Miss  Martha  should  live  after  they  were 
married,  and  had  insisted  upon  her  going  to  live 
in  the  old  Adams  homestead  with  his  mother 
and  elder  brother  and  two  sisters,  instead  of 
living  right  along  with  Emmeline  and  her 
mother  and  herself  (Annie).  She  considered 
that  Miss  Martha  had  done  exactly  right  to 
stand  out  as  she  had  done.  Everybody  knew 
what  old  Mrs.  Adams  was,  and  one  of  the 
sisters  was  called  quick-tempered,  and  the 

45 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

elder  brother  was  unmarried,  and  there  was 
therefore  no  possible  reason  why  Mr.  John 
Adams  should  feel  obliged  to  remain  at  home 
after  his  marriage.  On  the  other  side,  it  would 
obviously  be  very  hard  for  Emmeline's  mother 
to  part  with  her  sister  and  live  alone  in  her  big 
house  with  Emmeline  and  Annie.  It  was  a 
very  large  house,  and  there  was  plenty  of  room ; 
whereas  the  Adams  house  was  small.  There 
could  be  no  question,  so  Annie  thought,  and  so 
Emmeline's  mother  thought,  and  so  Martha 
herself  thought,  but  she  had  done  right.  Martha 
reasoned  it  out  in  her  own  mind  that  John 
Adams  could  not  care  so  very  much  for  her,  or 
he  would  not  insist  upon  subjecting  her  to  such 
discomfort  and  annoyance  as  she  would  evi 
dently  experience  if  she  were  to  live  in  the 
Adams  house  after  her  marriage. 

John  had  always  been  frank  about  his 
mother's  difficult  temper  and  his  sister's,  al 
though  he  was  a  devoted  son  and  brother.  He 
knew,  too,  that  Martha  could  not  have  a  sitting- 
room  to  herself  in  which  to  display  her  wedding 
treasures,  and  she  could  have  that  in  the  Ames 
house.  She  considered  within  herself  that  he 
could  not  possibly  love  her  as  much  as  she  had 
supposed,  because  he  had  given  no  reason  what- 
46 


LITTLE-GIRL-  APR  AID-OF-A-DOG 

ever  for  his  insistence  that  she  should  comply 
with  his  wishes  except  that  they  were  his  wishes. 
Martha  had  a  pretty  spirit  of  her  own,  and  she 
resented  anything  like  tyranny,  even  in  those 
whom  she  loved.  So  she  held  her  head  high, 
although  her  eyes  were  red,  and  said,  in  reply  to 
her  sister's  suggestion,  that  she  rather  thought 
she  would  not.  She  thought  she  would  take 
the  ten-thirty  train  for  Bolton  and  do  a  little 
shopping.  She  wanted  to  see  about  a  spring 
suit,  and  the  sooner  she  got  the  material  to  the 
dressmaker's  the  better.  She  said  it  exactly 
as  if  she  had  not  planned  to  have  that  same 
spring  suit  her  going-away  costume  when  she 
was  married.  Martha  had  expected  to  be 
married  the  first  of  June.  It  was  now  March. 
When  she  said  that  about  going  to  Bolton  her 
sister's  face  brightened,  and  she  gave  her  a  look 
of  pride  in  her  spirit.  "So  I  would,"  said  she. 
She  did  not  notice  at  all  how  Emmeline's  face 
fell.  For  a  second  the  thought  of  her  aunt's 
going  with  her  to  the  Ticknors'  and  shooing  away 
with  her  superior  courage  and  strength  that 
dreadful  little  dog  had  caused  her  heart  to  leap 
exultantly.  But  now  that  chance  of  respite 
was  gone.  She  took  a  spoonful  of  her  cereal, 
puckering  her  little  mouth  most  pathetically 
47 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

after  she  had  swallowed  it.  She  did  not  care 
for  cereal,  and  only  ate  it  because  her  mother 
and  aunt  said  that  it  was  good  for  her.  Em- 
meline  had  begun  to  wonder  why  so  many  things 
which  she  disliked,  and  so  many  things  which 
she  more  than  disliked,  were  so  good  for  her. 
She  acquiesced  in  the  wisdom  of  her  elders,  but 
she  wondered. 

She  ate  her  cereal,  then  her  soft-boiled  egg  on 
toast.  She  hated  eggs  that  morning,  although 
usually  she  liked  them.  She  felt  as  if  she  was 
fairly  eating  her  terror  and  dread  of  what  lay 
before  her:  eggs  were  so  intimately  associated 
with  it.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  fear  in  her 
heart  was  enough,  without  being  obliged  to  have 
it  in  her  stomach  also. 

After  breakfast  Emmeline  put  on  her  red 
coat  and  hat  (she  was  still  wearing  her  winter 
garments),  and  her  mother  gave  the  basket  of 
eggs  to  her  and  kissed  her.  "Don't  wralk  too 
fast  and  get  all  tired  out,  dear,"  she  said. 

She  and  Martha  stood  at  the  window  watch 
ing  the  gay  little  figure  move  slowly  down  the 
road.  They  need  not  have  cautioned  her 
against  speed.  She  did  not  feel  in  the  least  in 
clined  to  hurry. 

"The  child  does  not  look  very  well  this 
48 


LITTLE-GIRL-AFRAID-OF-A-DOG 

morning,"  said  Mrs.  Ames.  "She  has  that  old 
anxious  expression  again,  and  she  is  pale,  and 
she  ate  her  breakfast  as  if  she  did  not  want  it." 

"Ate  it  just  as  if  she  was  swallowing  pills," 
said  Annie. 

"Yes,  she  did,"  Mrs.  Ames  agreed,  anxiously. 

"Well,  the  walk  in  the  fresh  morning  air 
will  do  her  good,"  said  Martha.  "I  must  make 
a  start  if  I  am  going  to  catch  that  ten-thirty 
train.  I  must  mend  my  gloves.  I  think  I  will 
wear  my  brown  taffeta.  I  may  call  at  the 
Robins 's  while  I  am  in  Bolton." 

"I  would,"  said  Mrs.  Ames.  It  was  tacitly 
understood  between  them  that  nothing  more 
was  to  be  said  about  Mr.  John  Adams,  that  the 
whole  subject  was  to  be  left  out  of  sight  and 
hearing,  and  everything  was  to  go  on  as  before. 
However,  as  the  last  glimpse  of  red  disappeared 
down  the  street,  and  Martha's  step  was  heard 
overhead,  her  sister  thought  how  glad  she  was 
that  she  had  proposed  going  to  Bolton.  "It 
will  take  her  mind  up,"  she  thought,  but  she 
would  not  have  said  it  to  Martha  for  the  world. 

Meantime,   Emmeline  continued  slowly  but 

none  the  less  surely  on  her  road  to  the  Tick- 

nors'.     It  was  a  perfectly  straight  road  for  a 

quarter  of  a  mile,  then  it  curved.     It  was  not 

49 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

until  one  passed  this  curve  that  one  could  see  the 
Ticknors'  ragged,  squalid  residence.  Then  one 
saw  it  as  a  blur  on  the  landscape.  How  Em- 
meline  dreaded  rounding  that  curve!  She 
walked  very  slowly,  toeing  in  a  little,  as  was  her 
wont  when  she  was  nervously  intent.  She 
prayed  incessantly,  and  her  poor  little  prayer 
ran  in  this  wise:  "Oh,  Father  in  Heaven,  please 
take  care  of  me,  and  don't  let  Spotty  come  near 
me  nor  hurt  me  nor  bark  at  me."  Emmeline 
repeated  this  prayer  over  and  over  in  a  sort 
of  rhythmic  cadence.  She  fairly  kept  step  with 
it,  and  yet  she  had  not  the  slightest  faith  in  the 
prayer.  She  could  not  really  see  why  she  should 
have.  She  had  always  prayed  in  such  wise 
while  carrying  eggs  to  the  Ticknors,  and  Spotty 
had  never  failed  to  race  barking  out  to  meet  her, 
and  sniff  at  her  nervous,  twitching  little  ankles 
and  try  little  nips  and  tugs  at  her  skirts.  The 
prayer  had  never,  so  far  as  she  could  see,  been 
answered,  and  why  should  she  expect  it  to  be 
now?  Emmeline  was  a  very  honest  little  girl. 
She  was  reverent,  and  she  believed  God  could 
keep  Spotty  from  barking  at  her;  but  she  did 
not  believe  that  He  would.  Moreover,  she  was 
Christian  enough  to  hope  and  trust,  somehow, 
that  these  agonies  of  terror  which  she  was 


LITTLE-GIRL-  APR  AI D-  OF-  A-DOG 

called  upon  to  undergo  were  in  the  end  for  her 
spiritual  good.  She  did  not  complain,  but  she 
knew  that  she  suffered,  and  she  knew  that 
Spotty  would  not  fail  to  bark. 

Presently  she  turned  that  dreaded  curve  of 
the  road,  and  she  could  see  the  wretched  place 
where  the  Ticknors  lived.  The  dwelling  itself 
was  an  unpainted,  out-of-drawing  shanty,  lean 
ing  so  far  to  one  side  that  it  seemed  it  must 
topple  over,  but  saving  itself  by  a  lurch  in  an 
other  direction.  It  was  a  very  drunkard  of  a 
house,  a  habitation  which  had  taken  upon  itself 
the  character  of  its  inmates.  It  was  degenerate, 
miserable,  and  oblivious  to  its  misery,  Beside 
this  main  shanty  was  a  stable,  far  out  of  the 
perpendicular,  out  of  which  looked  a  high- 
hipped  cow.  Sometimes  Emmeline  was  afraid 
of  the  cow,  which  was  often  at  large,  but  never 
as  of  the  dog.  There  was  also  a  pigsty  and 
various  other  horrible  little  adjuncts  of  the  main 
whole.  Emmeline  shuddered  as  she  came  in 
sight  of  it.  The  mere  aspect  of  the  place  would 
have  gotten  on  her  sensitive  nerves  even  if 
Spotty  had  not  been  there.  But  immeditely, 
breaking  upon  her  prayer,  came  the  well-known 
vicious  little  yelp.  Spotty  was  a  mongrel,  but 
he  had  wondrous  ears.  Emmeline  espied  the 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

little  animal  coming  for  her  so  fast  that  he 
seemed  a  mere  line  of  speed,  but  never  ceasing 
that  wild  yelp.  Emmeline  prayed  on,  and 
walked  on.  It  was  strange  that  she  never  at 
such  times  thought  of  turning  round  and  run 
ning.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  disobey  her 
mother  and  not  take  the  eggs  to  the  Ticknors. 
She  walked  along,  praying,  her  heart  beating 
heavily,  her  limbs  shaking.  The  little  dog 
reached  her.  He  was  a  little  dog,  and  it  was  a 
sheer  absurdity  for  her  to  feel  such  fear  of  him. 
He  danced  around  in  circles,  a  regular  dog  war- 
dance,  as  she  advanced.  His  yelps  became 
louder  and  louder.  It  seemed  inconceivable 
that  such  a  small  animal  could  have  such  a 
terrific  bark.  Emmeline  went  steadily  on, 
toeing  in,  holding  her  basket  of  eggs  in  a  hand 
which  did  not  feel  as  if  it  belonged  to  her. 
It  did  not  seem  that  her  whole  body  belonged 
to  her  in  any  other  sense  than  as  a  machine 
which  bore  her  conscience,  her  obedience,  her 
fear,  and  the  basket  of  eggs.  When  she  reach 
ed  the  Ticknor  house  she  was  blue-white, 
trembling  with  a  curious  rigid  tremor.  She 
knocked,  and  the  little  dog  gave  a  furious,  a 
frantic  yelp,  and  tugged  at  her  skirt.  Then  the 
second  of  her  deliverance  came.  The  door 
52 


MOTHER     SENT     THESE     EGGS."    SAID     EMMEL1NE,     IN     A     SMALL, 
WEAK     VOICE 


LITTLE-GIRL- AFRAID. OF- A- DOG 

opened.  An  enormous  slatternly  woman,  a 
mountain  of  inert  flesh,  appeared.  She  bade 
the  dog  be  quiet.  He  did  not  obey,  but  Em- 
meline  had  a  sense  of  protection.  It  had  oc 
curred  to  her  more  than  once  that  perhaps  Mrs. 
Ticknor,  in  consideration  of  the  eggs,  would,  if 
Spotty  actually  attacked  her,  sit  upon  him; 
that  she  would  not  actually  let  her  be  bitten. 
Behind  Mrs.  Ticknor  the  close  room  swarmed 
with  children — children  with  gaping,  grinning 
faces,  some  of  them  with  impudent  faces,  but 
most  of  them  placidly  inert  like  their  mother. 
The  Ticknors  represented  the  very  doldrums  of 
humanity.  None  of  them  worked  nor  pro 
gressed,  except  the  father,  who  occasionally 
could  be  induced  to  do  a  little  work  for  the 
neighbors  when  the  supplies  ran  too  low  and 
actual  starvation  became  a  temporary  goad. 
To-day  he  was  ploughing  for  a  farmer,  plodding 
lazily  along  behind  a  heavy  old  horse.  He 
could  scarcely  be  said  to  be  working.  Emme- 
line  was  glad  that  he  was  not  at  home.  Some 
times  he  had  been  drinking  considerable  hard 
cider,  and  although  he  never  spoke  to  her,  the 
hard  red  in  his  face  disturbed  her;  also  the 
glassy  stare  of  his  stupid  eyes. 

" Mother  sent  these  eggs,"   said   Emmeline 
53 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

in  a  small,  weak  voice.  Mrs.  Ticknor  took 
them  with  an  inarticulate  note  of  thanks,  like 
a  dumb  beast.  The  children  stared  and  grinned 
and  gaped.  All  the  dingy  room  seemed  full  of 
staring  eyes,  and  gaping,  grinning  mouths.  The 
little  dog  yelped  viciously,  louder  and  louder. 
It  was  incredible  of  what  a  crescendo  that  small 
dog  was  capable.  Emmeline  pinned  her  faith 
on  Mrs.  Ticknor 's  coming  to  her  rescue  in  case 
of  an  actual  assault,  but  every  minute  she  ex 
pected  to  feel  the  needle -like  teeth  in  her 
ankle.  All  her  flesh  shrank  and  quivered.  It 
seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Ticknor  would  never  find 
a  dish  in  which  to  deposit  the  eggs.  Finally 
she  did,  however,  and  Emmeline  took  her 
basket.  The  little  dog  followed,  with  his 
circling  war-dance  and  his  crescendo  of  yelps,  to 
the  curve  of  the  road.  Then,  as  was  invariably 
the  case,  he  turned  suddenly  and  ran  home,  as 
if  with  a  sudden  conviction  that  the  game  was 
not  worth  the  candle. 

Then  Emmeline  toed  out,  and  walked  on 
briskly,  her  head  up ;  her  trial  for  that  day  was 
over. 

When  she  reached  home  her  mother  looked 
at  her  and  her  face  brightened.      "You  look 
so  much  better  for  your  walk,  darling,"  she  said. 
54 


LITTLE.  GIRL-  APR  AID-OF-A-DOG 

Then  she  asked  if  the  Ticknors  seemed  pleased 
with  the  eggs.  Emmeline  was  in  a  little  doubt 
as  to  the  amount  of  actual  pleasure  which  the 
Ticknors  had  displayed,  but  she  said  "Yes'm." 

"It  means  a  great  deal  to  them,  poor  things," 
said  her  mother.  "I  am  so  glad  we  can  help 
them  a  little,  and  so  glad  you  can  do  your 
part." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Emmeline. 

The  next  morning  the  torture  was  repeated. 
It  was  like  a  historical  promenade  between  two 
rows  of  Indians  armed  with  cruel  weapons. 
However,  she  survived  it,  and  when  she  came 
home  both  her  mother  and  aunt  remarked  upon 
her  improved  appearance.  That  was  what  so 
misled  them.  Every  morning  Emmeline  re 
turned  from  her  charitable  trip  with  such  a 
sense  of  momentary  relief  that  her  face  was 
naturally  brighter  than  when  she  started,  but 
all  the  while  she  steadily  lost  ground  under  the 
strain.  Finally  the  doctor  was  called  in  and  a 
tonic  prescribed,  and  when  school  began,  after 
the  spring  vacation,  it  was  decided  that  Em 
meline  should  remain  at  home,  but  try  to  go  on 
with  her  class  with  Aunt  Martha's  assistance. 

"I  think  nothing  except  that  morning  walk 
to  the  Ticknors',  to  carry  eggs,  keeps  the  poor 
55 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

child  up,  anyway,"  said  Emmeline's  mother, 
who  had  followed  the  doctor  to  the  door. 

"I  dare  say,"  he  replied.  "Keep  her  out 
in  the  fresh  air  all  you  can,  and  send  her  on 
errands  that  interest  her." 

"That  does  interest  her,"  said  Mrs.  Ames. 
"She  is  so  pleased  to  think  she  is  helping  those 
poor  Ticknors,  dear  little  thing." 

Emmeline  overheard  what  was  said ;  the  door 
was  slightly  ajar.  There  was  a  curious  little 
twitch  about  her  sensitive  mouth.  Troubled 
as  she  was,  she  saw  the  humor  in  the  situation. 
The  very  thing  which  was  making  her  ill,  her 
mother  regarded  as  her  chief  medicine.  It 
seemed  strange  that  Emmeline  did  not  tell  her 
mother  of  her  true  state  of  mind.  The  ex 
peditions  would  have  been  at  once  stopped. 
She  did  not  tell  her,  however,  and  probably  for 
reasons  which  she  did  not  herself  understand. 
There  is  in  every  complete  personality  a  side 
which  is  dark  except  toward  its  own  self  and 
God,  and  Emmeline  realized  this  dark  side  in 
herself,  although  vaguely.  She  knew  perfectly 
well  that  nobody,  not  even  her  mother,  who 
loved  her,  could  understand  rightly  this  dark 
side,  which  was  sacred  to  herself.  She  knew 
that  if  she  told  her  mother  how  afraid  she  was 
56 


LITTLE-GIRL-  APR  AI D-  OF-  A-DOG 

of  that  little  Ticknor  dog  she  would  be  petted 
and  comforted,  and  would  never  have  to  face 
the  terror  again;  and  yet  she  knew  that  her 
mother  would  secretly  laugh  over  her  and  not 
comprehend  how  she  felt,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  could  not  face  that.  She  would 
rather  face  the  dog. 

So  she  continued  carrying  the  eggs  and  pray 
ing,  and  the  little  dog  continued  barking  at  her 
and  snapping  at  her  heels  and  tugging  at  her 
dress,  and  she  took  the  doctor's  medicine,  and 
yet  she  grew  paler  and  thinner,  and  slept  less, 
and  ate  less,  and  her  mother  and  aunt  thought 
that  the  daily  walk  in  the  open  was  all  that  kept 
the  child  up.  Then,  three  weeks  after  she  first 
began  her  charitable  trips,  something  happened. 

It  was  almost  the  first  of  April,  but  the 
spring  was  very  late,  and  that  Wednesday 
morning  had  seemed  to  suffer  an  actual  relapse 
into  winter.  The  northwest  wind  blew  cold,  as 
if  from  northern  snow  and  ice  fields ;  the  ground 
was  frozen  hard,  and  the  farmers  had  been 
obliged  to  quit  their  ploughing,  which  they  had 
begun  on  mild  days.  The  long  furrows  in  a 
field  which  Emmeline  had  to  pass  before  she 
reached  the  curve  in  the  road  lay  stretched  out 
stiff  and  rigid  like  dead  men.  In  the  midst  of 
s  57 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

that  field  stood  a  little  corn-house,  the  door 
of  which  was  open.  Emmeline  glanced  casually 
across  the  field  as  she  lagged  along.  She  still 
wore  her  little  red  coat  and  hat,  under  which 
her  soft  fleece  of  blond  hair  flew  before  the 
wind  like  a  flag.  She  glanced  casually,  then  her 
heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  seemed  to  stand 
still.  Over  that  rigid  field  she  had  seen  a  little 
live  object  scamper  and  make  straight  for  that 
corn-house,  which  he  entered,  doubtless  in  pur 
suit  of  some  smaller,  swifter  thing  which  she 
could  not  see,  possibly  a  field-mouse  or  a  mole. 
Emmeline  knew  the  pursuer  to  be  the  Ticknor 
dog.  A  thought  leaped  into  her  brain  —  a 
thought  so  wild  and  audacious  that  she  could 
not  entirely  harbor  it  for  a  second.  Then  all 
her  faculties  rose  to  action.  Down  on  the 
ground  she  set  her  basket  of  eggs.  Over  the 
fence,  with  its  tangle  of  leafless  vines,  she 
went,  and  across  the  field  she  raced,  her  lit 
tle  feet  skipping  from  furrow  to  furrow,  her 
hair  streaming.  She  reached  the  corn-house, 
and  grasped  the  door,  swinging  outward  and 
creaking  in  the  cold  wind,  with  a  grasp  of 
despair.  She  slammed  it  to,  and  fastened  it. 
Emmeline  at  last  had  her  enemy  safe  in  prison. 
An  angry  bark  and  a  scratching  assailed  her 


LITTLE-GIRL- APR  AID-OF-A-DOG 

ears  as  she  sped  back  to  the  road,  but  Spotty 
could  not  get  loose.  She  was  sure  of  that. 
It  was  a  strong  little  house.  Emmeline  took 
up  her  basket  of  eggs  and  went  on.  Nobody 
had  seen  her.  This  was  a  lonely  spot  in  the 
road.  A  mad  exultation  filled  her  heart.  For 
the  first  time  she  was  going  to  the  Ticknors' 
without  fear  clutching  her,  body  and  soul. 
When  she  rounded  the  curve  in  the  road  and 
came  in  sight  of  the  squalid  little  group  of 
buildings  they  looked  almost  beautiful  to  her. 
She  fairly  laughed  to  herself.  She  almost 
danced  as  she  went  on.  When  she  reached  the 
house  and  Mrs.  Ticknor  opened  the  door  as 
usual  she  saw  for  the  first  time  what  a  really 
lovely  little  face  the  next  little  girl  to  the  baby 
had,  in  spite  of  dirt.  She  smiled  as  she  de 
livered  the  eggs,  and  stood  beaming  while  Mrs. 
Ticknor  emptied  the  basket  and  returned  it. 
She  had  no  need  to  look  about  nor  listen  for 
any  little  spiteful  animal  now.  She  was  quite 
safe.  She  went  home  light-footed.  She  was 
quite  rosy  when  she  reached  there. 

"The  dear  child  is  really  better, "  her  aunt 
said  to  her  mother  when  Emmeline  had  gone 
to  put  away  her  out-door  wraps. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Ames,  "she  certainly  does 
59 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

look  better,  and  I  do  believe  it  is  nothing  but 
that  walk  every  morning  in  the  fresh  air  has 
done  her  good." 

"I  think  so  too,"  said  Martha.  "I  think  it 
has  done  her  much  more  good  than  the  doctor's 
medicine." 

Poor  Martha  herself  looked,  in  spite  of  her 
pride  and  her  high  carriage  of  head,  as  if  she 
needed  some  helpful  tonic  for  either  soul  or 
body,  or  both.  She  had  grown  thinner,  and  al 
though  she  smiled,  the  smile  did  not  look 
spontaneous.  In  these  days  Martha  smiled 
mechanically  and  only  with  her  lips.  Her 
lips  curved  prettily,  but  her  eyes  remained 
serious  and  thoughtful,  even  while  she  spoke 
about  Emmeline's  looking  better.  Emmeline 
did,  in  reality,  seem  better  all  that  day.  She 
even  asked  for  luncheon  between  breakfast  and 
noon.  She  slept  well  that  night.  She  ate  her 
breakfast  with  an  appetite  the  next  morning, 
and  set  out  even  merrily  on  her  errand  to  the 
Ticknors.  It  was  still  cold,  and  the  northwest 
wind  had  not  gone  down.  It  had  raged  all 
night.  When  she  came  to  the  field  in  which  the 
corn-house  stood  the  door  was  closed  fast ;  no 
one  was  at  work,  and  the  plough  ridges  which 
later  on  would  be  green  with  waving  flags  of 

60 


LITTLE-GIRL- APR  AID-OF-A-DOG 

corn  lay  stiffly  like  dead  men,  as  they  had  done 
the  day  before.  Emmeline  looked  at  the  corn- 
house.  She  thought,  but  she  was  not  quite 
sure,  that  she  heard  a  little  plaintive  sound, 
something  between  a  whine  and  yelp.  When 
she  returned  she  was  quite  sure.  She  knew 
that  she  heard  it.  Her  face  sobered.  When 
she  reached  home  her  mother  and  aunt  ex 
changed  glances,  and  her  mother  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  tell  Annie  to  make  some  beef -tea. 
Emmeline  had  to  drink  a  cup  of  it  when  it  was 
made.  Her  mother  and  aunt  had  agreed,  with 
dismay,  that  she  did  not  look  as  well  as  she  had 
done  the  day 'before.  She  looked  still  worse  as 
the  day  wore  on  and  the  days  wore  on.  Dur 
ing  three  days  Emmeline  suffered  tortures  of 
remorse  with  regard  to  the  little  dog  shut  up 
in  the  corn-house  and  perhaps  starving  to  death, 
unless  there  might  be  some  scattered  corn  left 
over  from  the  year  before,  or  rats.  Emmeline 
was  not  quite  sure  as  to  whether  Spotty  would 
eat  rats,  even  if  reduced  to  starvation.  She 
astonished  her  mother  on  the  evening  of  the 
second  day  by  inquiring,  apropos  of  nothing  at 
all,  "Mother,  do  dogs  ever  eat  rats?"  And 
when  both  her  mother  and  aunt  seemed  unable 
to  answer  positively  in  the  affirmative,  her  little 

61 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

face  took  on  an  expression  of  white  misery 
which  amazed  them.  After  Emmeline  had  gone 
to  bed  that  night  her  mother  told  her  aunt  that 
if  the  child  was  not  better  before  long  she 
should  call  in  another  doctor. 

It  was  horrible  for  Emmeline  during  those 
mornings  to  pass  that  corn-house,  with  its  shut 
door  and  desolate  field.  She  felt  like  a  mur 
deress.  She  was  not  quite  sure  whether  she 
heard  Spotty's  plaintive  whine.  She  wondered 
if  he  were  dead  and  she  had  killed  him. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  third  day  that 
Emmeline  made  up  her  mind.  Chance  favored 
her.  Annie  had  forgotten  to  order  a  yeast- 
cake,  and  the  fact  was  mentioned  in  her  presence 
just  before  supper.  Annie  said  that  she  would 
go  to  the  store  after  supper  and  get  it,  for  she 
must  mix  bread  that  night.  Then  Emmeline 
spoke  eagerly: 

* '  Mother,  can't  I  go  ?  There  is  plenty  of  time 
before  supper.  Please  let  me  go." 

Her  aunt  abetted  her.  "I  would  let  her  go 
if  I  were  you,"  she  said.  "She  will  sleep 
better.  The  air  is  lovely,  although  it  is  frosty 
for  this  time  of  year."  Martha  had  just  come 
from  a  walk  to  the  post-office.  "There  I  have 
been  right  in  the  store,  and  could  have  got  it 

62 


LITTLE-GIRL- APR  AID-OF-A-DOG 

if  I  had  known,"  she  said;  "but  I  do  think  it 
will  do  Emmeline  good  to  run  out,  and  it  will 
not  be  dark  until  after  she  gets  back." 

So  Emmeline  went.  She  had  mysteriously 
tucked  up  the  sleeve  of  her  red  coat  a  little 
parcel  which  contained  two  chicken  bones. 
They  were  nice  little  chicken  bones,  wrapped 
in  white  paper.  She  carried  also  her  little 
purse,  in  which  she  had  some  money  of  her 
own  besides  the  pennies  which  her  mother  had 
given  her  to  buy  the  yeast  with. 

Emmeline  flashed  out  of  sight  of  the  house 
windows,  a  swift  little  figure  in  red. 

"I  can't  make  her  out  at  all,"  Emmeline 's 
mother  said.  "There  she  has  seemed  all  down 
in  the  dumps  for  two  days  and  a  half,  and  all  of 
a  sudden  she  is  as  eager  to  go  to  the  store  as  I 
ever  saw  her  about  anything  in  her  life.  Her 
eyes  looked  as  bright  as  stars." 

"If  she  were  grown  up,  I  should  think  she 
had  something  on  her  mind,"  Martha  said, 
reflectively. 

"Now,  Martha,  what  nonsense!  What  can 
that  baby,  with  everything  done  for  her,  have 
on  her  mind?" 

"Of  course  she  cannot,"  said  Martha,  but 
her  eyes  were  reflective. 

63 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Meantime,  Emmeline  sped  on  her  way.  The 
store  was  on  a  street  at  right  angles  to  the  one 
leading  to  the  Ticknors',  which  opened  just  be 
fore  the  field  with  the  corn-house  was  reached. 
Emmeline  hurried  to  the  store,  bought  the  yeast- 
cake,  and  also  with  her  own  money  a  little  paper 
bag  of  sweet  crackers.  Then  swiftly,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  she  ran  back  to  the  other 
road  and  across  the  field  to  the  corn-house. 
She  listened  for  just  one  second  before  opening 
the  door.  She  heard  a  little  whine — not  a 
bark,  but  a  whine.  Then  she  opened  the  door, 
and  no  soldier  charging  the  enemy  ever  re 
quired  more  spirit  than  she ;  but  open  it  she  did. 
She  held  out  the  chicken  bones.  Then  she 
flung  them  at  poor  Spotty,  emerging  trailingly 
from  the  dusty  interior.  Spotty  caught  at  the 
little  bones  and  crunched  them  down.  Then 
Emmeline  fed  him  with  the  sweet  crackers. 
She  put  one  on  the  ground.  Then,  as  the  little 
animal  caught  it  up,  a  feeling  of  great  love  and 
pity  overcame  her.  All  at  once  she  loved  that 
which  she  had  feared.  She  fed  Spotty  the  rest 
of  the  sweet  crackers  from  her  little  red-mitten- 
ed  hand,  and  did  not  have  the  slightest  quiver 
of  terror,  even  when  the  sharp  little  teeth  were 
so  near  her  fingers.  After  the  crackers  were 

64 


LITTLE-GIRL- A  FRAID-OF-A-DOG 

all  gone,  Emmeline  started  homeward,  and 
Spotty  followed  her.  He  bounded  around  her, 
leaping  up,  barking  with  joy.  He  was  a  poor 
little  mongrel,  and  from  heredity  and  poor 
training  he  had  lacked  the  better  traits  of  his 
kind.  He  had  been  mischievous,  cowardly,  and 
malicious.  He  had  loved  nobody.  But  now 
he  loved  Emmeline  for  setting  him  free  and  giv 
ing  him  food.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  injury 
which  she  had  done  him.  He  was  conscious 
only  of  the  benefit.  So  he  followed  her,  as  he 
had  never  followed  any  of  the  Ticknors.  They, 
in  truth,  had  never  cared  for  him.  They  had 
simply  been  too  indolent  and  too  indifferent  to 
turn  him  adrift  when,  a  poor  canine  wanderer, 
he  had  located  himself  with  them  uninvited. 
But  this  was  different.  He  loved  this  little 
girl,  who  had  opened  his  prison  door  and  fed 
him  with  nice  chicken  bones  and  sweet  crackers. 
He  had  suffered,  and  she  had  come  to  his  aid. 
He  was  still  thirsty,  but  thirst  also  would  be 
satisfied  by  her.  He  followed  her  with  joyful 
faith  across  the  field.  When  they  reached  the 
road  leading  to  the  store  a  man  emerged  thence, 
walking  hurriedly.  Emmeline  knew  him  at 
once.  He  was  Mr.  John  Adams. 

John    spoke    to    Emmeline    in    a    confused 
65 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

sort  of  way.     "Oh,  it  is  you,  Emmeline!"  he 
said. 

1  'Yes,  sir,"  replied  Emmeline. 

"How  are  your  mother  and  aunt?" 

"Pretty  well,  I  thank  you." 

"Have  you  been  to  supper?" 

"No,  sir." 

Mr.  John  Adams  hesitated  still  more. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "I  had  my  supper  early,  and 
so,  and  so — " 

Emmeline  glanced  up  at  him,  and  saw  to  her 
amazement  that  his  face  was  burning  red,  and 
he  was  smiling  foolishly. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  finally,  "that  I  would 
run  up  to  your  house  this  evening  and — I 
thought  I  would  go  early,  because — I  happened 
to  think  it  was  the  evening  for  prayer-meeting, 
and  I  didn't  know  but  she — your  mother  and 
aunt  might  be  going,  and — I  thought  if  they  were 
— if  I  went  early,  I  would  go  along  with  them." 

"Mother  and  Aunt  Martha  aren't  going  to 
meeting.  I  heard  them  say  so,"  said  Em 
meline.  Then  she  added,  out  of  the  innocence 
of  her  soul:  "I  know  Aunt  Martha  will  be  real 
glad  to  see  you." 

"Do  you  think  she  will?"  asked  Mr.  John 
Adams,  eagerly. 

66 


LITTLE.  GIRL-  APR  AID-OF-A-DOG 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  wonder  how  you  would  like  it  if  I  should 
come  and  live  in  your  house,  with  you  and 
your  mother  and  aunt?"  said  John  Adams. 

Emmeline  slipped  her  little  hand  into  his. 
"I  think  it  would  be  real  nice,"  she  said. 

"You  dear  little  soul!"  said  Mr.  John  Adams. 
He  squeezed  her  hand  in  his  big  strong  one. 
"Is  that  your  dog,  little  one?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

"I  didn't  know  but  you  had  been  getting  a 
pet  dog  since  I  was  at  your  house." 

"That  is  the  Ticknor  dog;  he  followed  me." 
Just  then  the  dog  leaped  up,  and  Emmeline 
patted  his  head,  laughing. 

"He  is  a  mongrel,  but  he  seems  a  bright  little 
dog,"  said  Mr.  John  Adams.  "I  should  think 
you  would  keep  him.  He  can't  have  a  very 
good  home  at  the  Ticknors'." 

"I  am  going  to  if  mother  will  let  me,"  said 
Emmeline,  with  sudden  resolve. 

The  little  triumphal  procession  went  on  its 
way.  The  west  was  a  clear  cold  red.  They 
passed  a  field  in  which  stood  scattered  stacks 
of  last  year's  corn.  In  the  shadow  the  withered 
blades  had  a  curious  vivid  crudeness  of  some 
thing  which  was  rather  tone  than  color.  They 

67 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

gleamed  out  like  newly  cut  wood,  like  naked 
flesh.  They  were  elemental,  belonging  to  the 
first:  dry  death,  for  which  there  are  no  paints 
on  the  palette,  any  more  than  for  light  and  air 
and  sentient  life.  But  where  the  red  western 
glow  struck  these  blades  of  corn  they  were  lit 
with  brilliant  reflections,  and  seemed  to  leap 
into  flames  of  red  gold. 

In  the  sky  was  faintly  visible  a  filmy  arc 
of  new  moon.  A  great  star  was  slowly  gath 
ering  light  near  it.  Emmeline  danced  along, 
holding  to  Mr.  John  Adams'  hand.  Her  head 
was  up.  Her  whole  face  laughed.  The  little 
dog  raced  ahead;  he  ran  back;  he  leaped  and 
barked  short  joyous  barks.  They  were  all 
conquerors,  by  that  might  of  spiritual  panoply 
of  love  with  which  they  had  been  born  equipped. 
There  was  the  dog,  in  whom  love  had  con 
quered  brute  spite  and  maliciousness;  the  man 
in  whom  love  had  conquered  self-will.  But 
the  child  was  the  greatest  conqueror  of  the  three, 
for  in  her  love  had  conquered  fear,  which  is 
in  all  creation  its  greatest  foe,  being  love's  own 
antithesis. 


THE  JOY   OF   YOUTH 


Ill 
THE   JOY   OF   YOUTH 

EMMELINE  AMES,  going  down  the  village 
street  that  winter  afternoon,  was  con 
scious  of  a  little  uncomfortable  lump  in  her 
right  shoe.  She  was  also  conscious  of  an  in 
nocent  bravado  of  shame  as  the  lump  worked 
from  the  hollow  of  her  instep  toward  her  toes. 
A  soft  red,  and  a  delicious,  silly  smile,  over 
spread  her  face.  The  lump  was  composed  of 
some  dried  sprigs  of  the  plant  called  boys'-love, 
or  southernwood.  Emmeline  believed  firmly 
in  the  superstition  concerning  it.  She  was  sure 
that  a  girl  with  a  sprig  of  boy's-love  in  her  shoe 
would  marry  the  first  boy  whom  she  met. 
In  summer,  when  the  plant  with  its  long,  gray- 
green,  aromatic  leaves  flourished  in  the  garden, 
she  often  wore  a  sprig  in  her  shoe,  and  she  had 
secretly  pressed  some  in  her  own  particular 
books,  in  order  that  she  might  be  able  to  try 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

the  charm  in  the  winter-time.  Emmeline  had 
too  much  credulity  and  imagination  to  be  in  a 
perfectly  normal  state;  or,  on  the  contrary, 
she  may  have  been  too  normal,  with  all  her 
human  instincts  dangerously  near  the  surface, 
and  as  prone  to  injury  as  her  great-grand 
mother's  egg-shell  china  teacups. 

There  was  a  cousin  of  Mr.  John  Adams',  whom 
her  aunt  Martha  had  married,  who  visited 
often  at  the  Ames  house.  The  cousin's  name 
was  Miss  Abby  Jennison;  she  was  a  professor 
in  a  girls'  college,  and  rather  uncomfortably 
analytical.  One  day  she  told  Emmeline's 
anxious  mother  that  Emmeline  was  a  good 
example  of  overgrowth  induced  by  the  strain 
of  civilization,  and  when  Emmeline's  mother 
had  rejoined  that  she  was  such  a  simple,  even 
primitive,  child,  Miss  Jennison  had  trium 
phantly  declared  that  that  only  confirmed  her 
in  her  opinion.  Emmeline  had  reverted  to  an 
original  type.  "How  long  can  you  keep  a 
pansy  from  returning  to  a  little  heartsease  if  it 
blooms  season  after  season  in  the  same  garden  ?" 
inquired  Miss  Jennison.  "Emmeline  is  a  First 
Principle,  bless  her.  I  adore  First  Principles." 

Emmeline's  mother  inferred  that  it  must 
be  desirable  for  a  little  girl  to  be  a  First  Prin- 
72 


THE   JOY    OF   YOUTH 

ciple,  still  she  felt  a  little  uneasy.  One  day, 
after  Miss  Jennison  had  returned  to  her  college, 
she  asked  her  sister  Martha,  Mrs.  John  Adams, 
what  she  supposed  Abby  Jennison  had  meant. 
Martha  was  rocking  comfortably  with  her 
second  little  girl  in  her  lap.  The  first  little 
girl  was  playing  on  the  floor  at  her  feet  with 
six  dolls,  a  very  small  horse,  and  a  very  large 
woolly  lamb.  Martha  looked  smilingly  over 
the  golden  downy  ball  of  the  baby's  head. 
"She  meant  what  most  people  mean  who  live 
on  paper  and  in  words,"  said  Martha  Adams. 

' 'You  don't  think  she  meant  that  Emmeline 
was  not  healthy — too  nervous  or  anything?" 

"Of  course  she  is  a  little  too  nervous,"  said 
Martha.  ' '  But  what  would  one  give  for  a  child 
without  nerves?  Emmeline  never  begun  to 
have  the  nerves  that  my  children  have."  She 
spoke  as  if  nerves  were  a  distinction,  and  her 
sister  said  no  more.  She  had  imbibed  a  hazy 
idea  that  being  a  First  Principle  meant  being 
nervous,  and  that  being  nervous  might  be 
desirable ;  still,  she  remained  somewhat  uneasy. 
Had  she  begun  to  know  what  went  on  within 
Emmeline's  little  blossoming  mind  she  would 
have  been  distracted.  Her  own  child  was  to 
her  as  a  sealed  casket  filled  with  mysterious 
*  73 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

processes  which  were  quite  beyond  her  scope. 
Emmeline  reflected  much  upon  topics  which 
her  elders  considered  as  being  remote  from  her 
furthest  imaginings.  For  instance,  that  sprig 
of  dried  southernwood  in  her  shoe  would  have 
been  incredible  to  her  mother  and  aunt. 

Emmeline  walked  along,  gazing  hopefully 
ahead.  She  was  slight  and  straight,  and  carried 
her  delicate  chin  high.  She  was  very  pretty, 
and  she  was  glad  on  account  of  the  Boy.  She 
stepped  daintily,  carefully  pointing  her  toes 
out.  She  had  a  tendency  to  toe  in,  which  she 
was  trying  to  overcome.  She  was  going  to  the 
store.  She  had  a  number  of  commissions  for 
her  mother  and  aunt. 

It  was  very  cold,  and  the  snow,  which  was 
trodden  hard,  gave  out  silvery  creaks  under 
foot.  The  fields  lay  in  wide  frozen  levels  of  a 
uniform  pearl  gray.  There  were  no  blue  lights, 
the  sky  was  clouded.  The  trees  stretched  out 
their  limbs  with  a  curious  stiffness.  The 
bushes,  in  which  were  still  tangled  a  few  dry 
leaves,  looked  brittle.  Emmeline  came  to  a 
large  bush,  and  a  swarm  of  sparrows  flew  out 
of  it,  as  if  the  dead  leaves  had  been  assailed 
by  a  sudden  wind.  She  walked  on,  gazing 
ahead  for  the  Boy  whom  she  should  know  for 

74 


THE  JOY   OF   YOUTH 

her  future  husband  by  virtue  of  that  sprig  of 
dry  southernwood  in  her  shoe. 

Emmeline,  as  she  went  on,  became  very 
much  afraid  that  this  test  would  end  as  had 
former  ones.  She  had  been  singularly  un 
fortunate  in  her  experiments  with  boy's-love. 
Her  most  intimate  friend,  Anita  Lord,  had  met 
Johnny  Woodfield  while  trying  the  charm,  and 
Emmeline,  who  had  included  Johnny  in  her  own 
list  of  possibilities,  had  straightway  loyally 
eliminated  him.  After  that  it  had  seemed  as 
if  she  were  fated  to  meet  Johnny  Woodfield 
when  she  herself  was  afield  with  southernwood 
aromatically  crushed  underfoot.  Now  she  saw 
him  approaching,  and  sighed.  It  did  seem  hard 
that  she  should  inevitably  meet  a  boy  who  was 
destined  to  become  the  husband  of  her  dearest 
friend.  She  spoke  rather  stiffly  to  him  and  was 
passing  on,  but  Johnny  stopped  her. 

11  What's  your  hurry?"  he  inquired,  affably. 

"I  have  some  errands  at  the  store,  and  I 
must  get  home  before  dark." 

'Shucks!  loads  of  time!     Say,  Emmeline — " 


« 
"Well?" 


Johnny,  who  was  rather  large  and  stout  for 
his  age,  hesitated.  He  shifted  his  weight  from 
one  foot  to  the  other.  His  cheeks  were  already 

75 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

crimson  with  the  cold,  but  a  warmer  glow  of 
young  blood  deepened  the  tint. 

"It's  a  corking  cold  day,  ain't  it?"  he  said 
at  length. 

"Awful,"  returned  Emmeline.  She  looked 
up  in  Johnny  Woodfield's  face.  It  was  a  hand 
some  boy-face.  She  realized  that  had  it  not 
been  for  Anita,  she  might — but  she  shook  her 
head  impatiently.  She  made  a  motion  to  pass, 
then  Johnny  spoke  to  the  point. 

"Say,  Emmeline,"  he  blurted  out,  "don't 
you  want  to  go  to  the  concert  with  me  to 
morrow  night?"  It  was  the  first  time  that 
Johnny  Woodfield  had  ever  invited  a  girl  to  go 
anywhere  with  him,  and  it  was  the  first  time 
that  Emmeline  had  been  invited.  It  was  a 
tremendous  moment  for  both  of  them.  Em 
meline,  however,  was  a  girl,  and  she  had  her 
wits  about  her.  She  knew  exactly  what  to  say, 
and  she  said  it  beautifully. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said;  "you  are  very  kind, 
but  I  have  a  previous  engagement." 

Johnny  Woodfield  realized  the  dignity  and 
finality  of  the  reply.  He  jerked  his  cap  from 
his  head,  which  looked  pathetically  curly.  His 
cheeks  blazed.  He  stood  aside  for  Emmeline 
to  pass.  Then  the  little  girl's  pitiful  heart  mis- 

76 


IT     WAS     THE     FIRST     TIME     HE     HAD     EVER     INVITED     A     GIRL     TO 
GO      ANYWHERE 


THE   JOY   OF   YOUTH 

gave  her.     She  looked  at  him,  and  her  pretty 
mouth  quivered. 

"You  aren't  mad,  are  you,  Johnny  ?"  she  said. 

"Of  course  I  ain't/'  replied  Johnny,  man 
fully.  "If  you  have  a  previous  engagement, 
that  settles  it." 

"I  don't  think  Anita  has  any  engagement." 

"Oh,  well,  I  may  not  go  to  the  concert,  any 
way,"  returned  Johnny.  "Good-evening,  Em- 
meline." 

"Good -evening,"  returned  Emmeline.  She 
walked  on  rather  sadly.  She  had  no  regrets 
concerning  Johnny,  since  she  firmly  believed 
him  to  be  Anita's  property,  but  she  was,  of 
course,  facing  an  irony  of  fate. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  faced  another. 
She  saw  some  one  approaching,  and  her  heart 
leaped.  Was  it — ?  A  young  man  jauntily 
swinging  a  tightly  rolled  umbrella  came  toward 
her.  Emmeline  did  not  raise  her  eyes  until  she 
met  him.  She  was  almost  sure.  When  she 
did  look  up  she  encountered  the  handsome, 
patronizing  eyes  of  Mr.  Lionel  Bates,  who  was 
going  to  be  married  in  the  spring  to  Miss  Ellen 
Sylvester.  Emmeline  knew  Mr.  Bates.  He 
was  a  lawyer,  and  had  had  business  dealings 
with  her  mother. 

77 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

"How  do  you  do,  little  one?"  said  Mr.  Bates, 
as  he  passed.  He  did  not  even  consider  it 
worth  his  while  to  raise  his  hat.  Emmeline 
passed  on.  She  reflected  that  if  a  grown-up 
young  man  could  know  what  a  girl  of  fourteen 
really  thought  of  him,  he  perhaps  would  not 
swing  his  umbrella  quite  so  airily. 

Then  she  saw  old  Mr.  Henry  T.  Meredith, 
who  was  eighty  and  had  had  three  wives,  ap 
proaching.  Emmeline  shuddered  at  the  thought 
that  the  southernwood  might  point  to  him. 
Mr.  Meredith  was  fond  of  little  girls,  and  he  was 
perpetually  mistaking  a  little  girl  for  one  of 
his  own  descendants.  He  had  grandchildren 
and  great-grandchildren,  and  his  memory  had 
begun  to  fail.  He  stopped  and  rested  on  his 
stick  when  he  met  Emmeline,  and  felt  in  his 
overcoat  pocket,  from  which  he  drew  a  sticky 
molasses  drop.  Then  he  thrust  the  sweet 
into  Emmeline 's  mouth  with  a  loud  cackle  of 
intense  enjoyment. 

* '  Didn't  think  ye  was  goin'  to  meet  grandpa, 
did  ye?"  said  he.  "How  be  ye,  grandpa's 
little  Lizzie'?  How's  your  ma?" 

Emmeline's  disgust  and  indignation  struggled 
with  her  native  politeness  and  veneration  for 
age.  She  spoke  as  well  as  she  could  on  account 

78 


THE   JOY    OF   YOUTH 

of  the  sticky  sweetmeat  in  her  mouth.  "I  am 
not  Lizzie,"  said  she.  "You  have  made  a  mis 
take,  Mr.  Meredith.  I  am  Emmeline  Ames." 

It  was  all  thrown  away  on  Mr.  Meredith.  He 
did  not  hear  one  word.  He  thrust  another 
molasses  drop  into  Emmeline 's  hand,  and  he 
cackled  again.  "Here's  another  for  ye,"  said 
he.  "Now  run  right  home  to  your  ma,  Lizzie, 
or  you'll  ketch  cold." 

Old  Mr.  Meredith  went  his  way  and  Emmeline 
went  hers.  As  soon  as  she  was  quite  sure  she 
was  unobserved  she  disposed  of  the  two  molasses 
drops.  This  time  the  irony  of  fate  had  almost 
cuffed  her  ears. 

She  walked  on  a  little  farther.  She  had  al 
most  given  up  when  she  saw  the  Boy  advancing. 
This  time  she  knew.  When  they  met  she 
glanced  quickly  at  him,  disclosing  a  flash  of 
brilliant  blue  under  gold-fringed  lids  which  im 
mediately  dropped  upon  paling  cheeks.  She 
was  sure  the  Boy's  eyes  had  met  hers,  but  he 
did  not  look  away  so  quickly.  She  could  feel 
his  earnest  gaze  upon  her  face.  She  knew  that 
he  turned  and  looked  after  her.  She  wondered 
if  she  were  walking  straight.  She  felt  the  boy's- 
love  in  her  shoe.  Her  heart  beat  so  loud  that 
she  did  not  hear  the  resonant  creak  of  the  snow. 

79 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

She  did  not  feel  the  bite  of  the  winter  wind  upon 
her  face.  A  sleigh  passed  with  a  loud  jangle  of 
bells.  She  did  not  notice  it.  She  had  met  the 
Boy.  She  had  no  doubt.  She  did  not  know 
who  he  was.  He  was  a  beautiful  boy.  He 
was  tall  and  straight  and  slender,  and  he  had  a 
handsome  dark  face.  Emmeline  had  met  him 
with  a  sprig  of  southernwood  in  her  shoe,  and 
she  knew.  It  made  no  difference  to  her  that 
the  superstition  was  to  the  effect  that  a  girl 
would  marry  the  first  one  whom  she  met.  She 
obviously  could  not  marry  a  boy  who  was  the 
property  of  her  dearest  friend,  or  an  engaged 
young  man,  or  an  old  gentleman  who  could  not 
tell  her  from  one  of  his  own  great-grandchildren. 

In  her  agitation,  Emmeline  walked  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  past  the  store.  Then  she  met 
Anita,  who  asked  her  where  she  was  going,  and 
she  remembered. 

"To  the  store?"  repeated  Anita.  "Why, 
Emmeline  Ames,  you  have  walked  'way  past 
it!  It  is  freezing  cold,  too." 

Anita  was  very  fat,  and  there  was  a  curious 
unfinished  effect  about  her  nose  and  mouth. 
She  had  a  quantity  of  black  hair,  and  she  had 
just  begun  to  do  it  up.  A  great  knot  of  it 
wobbled  about  her  neck  as  she  spoke. 

80 


THE  JOY   OF   YOUTH 

"I  don't  feel  a  bit  cold,"  replied  Emmeline. 

"It  is  cold  —  the  coldest  day  of  the  year. 
Well,  turn  round  and  walk  back  with  me. 
I  am  going  to  the  store,  too.  Aunt  Rachel 
wants  some  knitting-cotton — she  is  out  of  it — 
for  those  everlasting  face-cloths  she  is  always 
knitting." 

"I  suppose  she  likes  to  knit  them,"  Emmeline 
remarked,  dreamily,  as  she  walked  back  with 
Anita. 

"I  suppose  she  does,  or  she  knits  them  be 
cause  she  hasn't  anything  she  does  like  to  do." 

Emmeline  did  not  hear  what  Anita  said. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  Boy.  Then  suddenly 
she  thought  she  must  say  something  to  her 
friend.  "I  met  Johnny  just  now,"  she  said. 

The  color  flew  into  Anita's  face.  She  tossed 
her  head,  and  the  great  knot  of  black  hair 
wobbled  dangerously. 

"Huh!"  said  she,  "I  don't  know  as  I  think 
so  very  much  of  Johnny  Woodfield,  after  all." 

"But,  Anita,"  Emmeline  said,  wonderingly, 
"you  remember  how  you  met  him  last  summer 
when  you  had  that  sprig  of  boy's-love  in  your 
shoe." 

"Huh!"  said  Anita,  quite  violently,  "I  don't 
know  as  I  have  much  faith  in  that  sign, 
81 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

anyway.  Johnny  Woodfield  isn't  the  only  boy 
in  this  town,  and  I  don't  waste  my  thoughts  on 
any  boy  myself.  I  am  going  to  begin  to  study 
French  with  Miss  Laselle  next  week.  Grand 
mother  says  perhaps  I  can  go  to  Europe  for  a 
year  after  I  am  through  the  high-school,  and  if 
I  can't  speak  French  nobody  can  understand  a 
word  I  say.  I  might  just  as  well  be  a  cat 
travelling!" 

Emmeline  stared  at  Anita. 

"Grandmother  says  she  thinks  I  shall  need 
a  year's  rest  before  I  go  to  college,"  said  Anita, 
proudly.  "I  am  not  very  strong." 

Emmeline,  little,  slender,  high-browed  girl, 
looked  at  her  with  surprise.  "Why,  Anita, 
you  look  real  strong!"  said  she. 

"I  know  I  weigh  more  than  you  do,  Emme 
line,"  Anita  returned,  severely,  "but  weight  does 
not  always  mean  health.  I  am  very  delicate." 

Then  they  entered  the  store.  Emmeline 
made  her  purchases,  and  Anita  bought  white 
knitting-cotton.  Then  she  and  Anita  said 
good-bye  to  each  other  and  parted.  Emmeline 
walked  home  through  the  deepening  winter 
twilight.  She  gazed  ahead  with  her  innocent, 
serious  blue  eyes.  She  had  a  listening  air,  as  if 
she  heard  music.  She  was  very  happy. 

82 


THE   JOY    OF    YOUTH 

When  she  reached  home  she  went  into  the 
sitting-room,  where  her  mother  and  Aunt 
Martha  and  the  children  and  her  little  dog 
Spotty  were  all  grouped  before  the  hearth  fire. 
Spotty  sprang  at  her,  yelping  with  delight. 
He  tried  to  reach  her  beloved  little  face  with 
his  affectionate,  quivering  tongue. 

''Have  you  almost  perished  with  the  cold, 
dear?"  asked  Emmeline's  mother. 

"I  am  not  a  bit  cold,"  replied  Emmeline. 

She  removed  her  wraps,  and  sat  down  with 
the  others  before  the  fire,  which  cast  a  strange 
crimson  glow  upon  her  head.  Emmeline  sat 
still,  smiling  a  strange,  inscrutable  smile.  Her 
eyes,  very  blue  and  bright,  seemed  gazing  within 
herself  into  long  vistas  of  joy.  Little  Sally 
was  fast  asleep  on  the  bearskin  rug.  The  fire 
light  was  playing  over  her,  and  she  also  was 
smiling,  in  her  sleep,  with  ineffable  mystery. 
The  baby  in  Aunt  Martha's  arms  laughed  and 
crowed,  and  held  out  little  imploring  arms  to 
Emmeline,  who  immediately  arose  and  took 
her  carefully,  with  tender  kisses.  The  baby 
cuddled  up  against  her  shoulder  when  she  sat 
down  again,  and  Emmeline  smiled  over  the 
little  head,  that  same  smile  of  inscrutable  joy. 

Mr.  John  Adams,  Aunt  Martha's  husband, 
83 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

came  in.  "Whew!  but  it  is  a  cold  night!  It 
seems  mighty  good  to  get  home,"  he  said.  He 
kissed  Martha,  and  patted  the  children's  and 
Emmeline's  heads. 

Then  Annie  came  to  the  door  and  said  that 
dinner  was  ready.  After  dinner  Emmeline 
read  a  little  while,  then  went  to  bed.  When  she 
had  left  the  room  after  her  good-night  kisses, 
Mr.  John  Adams  looked  across  his  evening  paper 
at  his  wife  and  sister-in-law. 

' 'That  girl  is  going  to  make  havoc  with  young 
men's  hearts  before  very  long,"  said  he. 

' '  She  is  growing  prettier  every  day, ' '  assented 
Martha. 

Mrs.  Ames  smiled  proudly  but  a  little  un 
easily.  "Don't  put  such  ideas  into  the  child's 
head,  John,"  she  said. 

"There  is  no  need  of  putting  in  things  which 
are  there  already,"  said  John,  shrewdly.  Then 
the  door-bell  rang,  and  he  had  to  go  into  an 
other  room  to  see  a  man  on  business. 

Mrs.  Ames  regarded  her  sister  with  a  troubled 
expression.  "You  don't  think  that  baby  has 
begun  to  even  think  of  such  things?"  she  said, 
piteously. 

"Of  course  not,  dear,"  replied  Martha.  "It 
is  only  John's  nonsense." 

84 


THE   JOY    OF    YOUTH 

"She  always  tells  me  everything,"  said  Mrs. 
Ames,  looking  somewhat  consoled,  ''and  I  have 
never  allowed  her  to  read  novels.'* 

' '  I  think  you  have  been  very  wise  about  that , ' ' 
said  Martha.  "I  don't  mean  that  Sally  and 
Rosamond  shall  read  a  page  of  a  novel  before 
they  are  eighteen." 

Neither  woman  dreamed  how  the  girl  in  her 
dainty  nest  overhead  was  lying  awake  and  read 
ing  that  novel  of  her  own  heart,  which  the  most 
loving  and  watchful  of  guardians  cannot  close 
from  the  eyes  of  youth.  Emmeline,  curled  up 
in  her  little  white  bed,  was  thinking  of  the  Boy. 
An  innocent  rapture  permeated  every  nerve 
when  his  face  came  before  her  mental  vision. 
Such  a  beautiful  boy,  and  she  had  not  a  doubt 
about  the  linking  of  his  future  with  her  own. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  woke,  her  first 
thought  was  of  the  Boy,  and  a  great  ecstasy 
followed  the  thought.  She  looked  at  her  win 
dow  and  saw  the  snow  drifting  past  it  like  a 
white  veil.  If  it  had  been  pleasant  she  might 
have  gone  to  the  post-office  for  the  morning 
mail  and  she  might  have  met  the  Boy;  now 
Sydney  would  go.  However,  she  was  not 
troubled;  the  thought  of  the  Boy  was  enough 
to  fill  her  with  strange  content, 
35 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

She  was  very  happy  all  day.  She  sat  beside 
a  window,  looking  out  often  at  the  white 
storm.  She  had  some  embroidery  in  her  lap, 
but  she  did  not  work  much.  She  watched  the 
snow  fall  and  thought  of  the  Boy.  It  was  a 
very  severe  storm.  The  wind  blew  and  the 
snow  drifted  in  the  yard  with  curling  crests  like 
waves.  The  trees  stood  as  if  knee-deep  in 
eddying  hollows  of  snow.  It  was  strange,  but 
the  fiercer  the  storm  became  the  greater  be 
came  the  spiritual  exaltation  of  the  little  girl 
with  first  love  blossoming  in  her  heart.  The 
storm  and  her  happiness  increased  by  a  similar 
ratio.  She  would  not  have  been  as  happy  on  a 
day  when  the  weather  was  commonplace.  She 
hardly  spoke  from  morning  until  night.  She 
had  never,  in  all  her  life,  been  so  happy.  Even 
the  baby's  crying  when  the  light  began  to  wane 
did  not  disturb  her.  The  baby  was  cutting 
teeth.  Usually  Emmeline  was  troubled  when 
the  baby,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  cried. 
Now  cutting  teeth  seemed  a  part  of  the  uni 
versal  joyous  scheme  of  things.  Emmeline 
took  the  baby,  and  danced  her  up  and  down 
and  comforted  her.  When  the  child  finally  fell 
asleep  on  her  shoulder  the  sleep  also  seemed  a 
part  of  joy. 

86 


THE   JOY    OF    YOUTH 

The  storm  continued  all  night  and  during  the 
next  day  until  noon.  Then  the  sky  cleared 
and  the  world  was  a  great  blue  dazzle,  sparkling 
as  if  with  diamonds. 

Emmeline  watched  the  men  clearing  the  road 
and  Sydney  heaping  up  the  snow  in  great  ridges 
on  either  side  of  the  front  walk.  She  did  not 
go  out  that  day,  and  missed  more  chances  of 
seeing  the  Boy;  still,  the  thought  of  him  was 
entirely  sufficient  to  content  her. 

The  thought  of  him  was  sufficient  to  content 
her  as  days  and  weeks  and  months  passed  and 
she  did  not  see  him  again.  She  was  even 
curiously  afraid  that  somebody  might  mention 
him  to  her  and  she  might  discover  who  he  was. 
She  felt  instinctively  that  any  mention  of  the 
Boy  might  disturb  the  beautiful  crystalline 
isolation  in  which  she  dwelt  with  him. 

The  winter  was  over,  then  the  spring  school 
term  when  Emmeline  graduated  at  the  village 
high-school,  then  the  long  summer  vacation 
began.  All  this  time  Emmeline  was  very 
happy  with  her  remembrance  and  her  dream 
and  her  blossoming  hopes,  although  she  never 
saw  the  Boy.  She  grew  taller,  and  people  said 
she  was  fast  becoming  a  beauty.  Emmeline 
herself  did  not  realize  any  difference.  She  had 

87 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

always  considered  herself  pretty,  and  loved, 
very  innocently,  her  face  in  her  looking-glass. 
She  lived  so  in  her  dream  that  she  could  not 
realize  what  changes  the  dream  was  working 
within  herself. 

Toward  twilight  one  summer  day  Emmeline 
started  to  spend  the  night  at  Anita  Lord's. 
Anita  was  to  have  a  little  party,  and  Emmeline 
was  invited  to  remain  all  night  with  her.  Em 
meline  wore  her  new  white  dress  trimmed  with 
lace  and  embroidery,  and  a  white  hat  trimmed 
with  white  ribbon  and  roses.  She  carried  a  bag 
containing  her  nightgown  and  toilet  things. 

She  walked  fast,  for  there  was  a  cloud  in  the 
northwest  which  might  mean  a  thunder-shower, 
the  light  was  waning  fast,  and  she  wanted  to 
reach  Anita's  house.  She  had  come  to  an  un 
settled  place  bordered  by  fields  when  she  heard 
a  hoarse,  drunken  shout  behind  her  which 
filled  her  with  panic.  She  ran,  but  as  she  ran 
she  glanced  back.  She  saw  a  huge  figure  com 
ing  after  her  at  a  staggering  run.  She  knew 
immediately  who  it  was — Mr.  Ticknor.  He 
shouted  again,  and  she  understood.  "Violetty! 
Violetty!"  shouted  Mr.  Ticknor.  Emmeline 
knew  that  he  was  mistaking  her  for  his  daughter 
Violetta. 

88 


THE   JOY   OF    YOUTH 

She  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  Mr.  Tick- 
nor's  brutal  treatment  of  his  family.  She  re 
flected  that  since  Mr.  Ticknor  mistook  her  for 
his  daughter  Violetta  he  might,  if  he  caught  her, 
be  brutal  to  her.  She  ran  on.  The  hoarse 
shouts  gained  in  intensity.  She  heard  the 
name  of  Violetta  coupled  with  alarming  threats. 
She  made  out  that  she  was  to  be  beaten  within 
an  inch  of  her  life.  Her  slim  legs  skimmed  the 
ground  as  lightly  as  a  bird's,  but,  alas!  Mr. 
Ticknor  could  cover  twice  as  much  at  a  jump 
as  she.  He  would  certainly  have  caught  her 
had  it  not  been  for  his  frequent  departures 
from  a  straight  course.  As  it  was,  Emmeline 
heard  the  heavy,  padding  footsteps  nearer  and 
nearer.  She  saw  at  a  quick  glance  what  might 
be  her  only  chance.  She  had  reached  the  field 
in  which  stood  the  little  corn-house  where  she 
had  fastened  Spotty  four  years  ago. 

She  turned  abruptly,  and  made  for  the  little 
structure.  She  flashed  through  the  ranks  of 
fodder-corn  like  a  frightened  bird.  She  heard 
a  louder  shout  of  rage  from  Mr.  Ticknor.  She 
did  not  look  around.  She  wondered,  as  she 
ran,  if  she  remembered  correctly  that,  besides 
the  wooden  bolt  on  the  outside  of  the  corn- 
house  door,  there  was  a  lock  and  key.  If  she 
7  89 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

were  mistaken,  and  it  was  a  padlock  to  be  fast 
ened  only  from  the  outside,  she  was  lost.  She 
hoped  that  she  remembered  rightly  and  that 
there  was  a  lock,  although  it  was  unusual  in 
such  a  place.  When  she  reached  the  corn- 
house  she  saw  that  it  had  an  old  house-door 
which  was  equipped  with  a  heavy  lock  and  key. 
Emmeline  dashed  in.  She  slammed  the  door. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  the  key  which  was  in  the 
lock. 

There  was  a  moment  of  breathless  agony ;  the 
key  turned  very  hard.  But  at  last  it  clicked, 
and  Emmeline  sank  down  on  the  dusty  floor. 
She  realized  that  she  was  faint.  There  was  a 
singing  in  her  ears,  but  through  the  singing  she 
heard  Mr.  Ticknor's  raging  voice.  Then  sud 
denly  it  ceased.  After  a  while  Emmeline  got 
strength  enough  to  rise  and  stand  on  tiptoe 
and  push  the  little  sliding  window  a  crack  aside. 
No  one  was  in  sight.  She  tried  to  turn  the  key 
back,  but  she  could  not  move  it  at  all.  It  was 
hampered.  Then  she  knew  that  she  was  a 
prisoner  in  the  corn-house  until  some  chance 
rescuer  should  arrive.  The  one  window  was 
high  in  the  wall,  and  too  small  for  even  a  girl 
of  Emmeline's  proportions  to  crawl  through. 
Emmeline  tugged  again  at  the  key.  She 

90 


THE  JOY   OF   YOUTH 

blistered  one  hand,  but  it  was  all  useless.  Then 
she  stood  on  tiptoe  again  and  peeped  out  of  the 
window.  Presently  a  buggy  drawn  by  a  white 
horse  passed,  and  she  did  make  a  dismal  little 
outcry,  but  the  buggy  rattled  rapidly  past. 
Emmeline  sat  down  on  a  pile  of  last  year's 
corn.  She  did  not  weep.  The  situation  was 
beyond  tears. 

She  could  not  sit  still  long.  She  was  at  the 
window  again.  She  saw  in  the  dim  light  a 
figure  pass  along  the  road.  Then  she  realized 
that  she  could  not  possibly  know  who  it  was, 
that  she  might  be  rushing  from  one  danger  to 
another.  She  realized  that  she  must  remain 
where  she  was  all  night! — that  she  must  make 
up  her  mind  to  it.  She  thought  of  the  party 
at  Anita's.  She  knew  that  her  relatives  would 
have  no  occasion  to  worry  because  she  did  not 
come  home;  that  Anita  would  only  think  that 
something  had  detained  her,  and  would  not 
worry,  either;  that  nobody  would  institute  a 
search  for  her  until  the  next  day.  Then  she 
heard  a  familiar  little  sound  which  revived  her. 
It  was  Spotty's  small,  far-reaching  bark.  The 
little  dog  came  across  the  field  like  a  flying 
shadow.  First  he  leaped  at  the  window,  which 
he  could  not  reach.  He  whined,  he  called 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

his  consternation,  his  sympathy,  with  all  the 
tones  in  his  faithful  dog- voice.  All  night  long 
he  barked  and  howled  at  intervals.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  Spotty,  Emmeline  considered  that 
she  could  never  have  endured  such  a  night. 
The  little  dog's  scratchings  on  the  door  and  his 
commiserating  cries  were  all  she  had  to  sustain 
her.  She  sat  miserably  on  the  pile  of  corn,  and 
waited  for  morning.  She  soon  realized  that 
there  were  mice,  if  not  rats,  in  the  corn-house. 
She  had  frequently  to  move  about  to  keep  them 
quiet. 

Finally  the  sun  rose.  Then  she  took  up  her 
station  at  the  window.  People  began  to  pass, 
on  the  road,  walking  and  driving.  Emmeline, 
whenever  she  thought  she  was  safe  in  so  doing, 
cried  out,  but  her  voice  did  not  carry  well  and 
nobody  heard  her.  Spotty  also  made  frantic 
dashes  at  everybody,  but  he  was  simply  shooed 
away.  Nobody  understood  his  dog-language. 
It  was  ten  o'clock  before  help  came.  Em 
meline  saw  a  slim,  straight  young  figure  swing 
ing  along  the  road.  Spotty  made  one  of  his 
desperate  dashes.  The  figure  stopped.  Then 
Emmeline  saw  the  dog,  mad  with  joy,  careering 
back  to  her  prison,  and  running  in  his  wake 
the  Boy.  When  the  Boy  reached  the  corn- 

92 


THE   JOY   OF   YOUTH 

house  he  saw,  in  a  little  window  high  in  the  wall, 
a  beautiful  little  pale  face  fluffed  around  with 
yellow  hair  against  a  background  of  amber 
dusk. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  Boy. 

Emmeline  explained  in  little  gasps  as  well 
as  she  was  able.  The  Boy  immediately  rose 
to  the  situation.  He  was  a  strong  Boy.  He  put 
knee  and  shoulder  against  the  corn-house  door 
and  Emmeline  was  free.  "You  poor  little 
soul!"  said  the  Boy.  Emmeline  was  so  weak 
she  could  hardly  stand.  * '  Here,  take  my  arm, ' ' 
said  the  Boy.  He  was  not  at  all  awkward  with 
a  girl,  although  he  was  a  boy.  Emmeline  took 
his  arm,  and  the  two  went  through  the  corn, 
every  blade  of  which  was  strung  with  a  row  of 
dewdrops,  like  a  lily-of-the-valley,  and  Spotty 
raced  ahead  with  joyous  yelps,  and  returned 
to  circle  with  leaping  bounds  around  the  two. 
"That's  a  nice  little  dog,"  said  the  Boy,  when 
a  lull  in  the  explanations  of  the  situation  came. 

"Yes,"  said  Emmeline.  "I  don't  know  how 
I  could  ever  have  lived  through  the  night  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Spotty." 

"Poor  little  soul!"  said  the  Boy,  again. 

Emmeline  felt  a  thrill  of  something  which 
seemed  like  the  light  of  the  dewy  morning. 

93 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"I  don't  know  what  your  name  is,"  said  the 
Boy. 

"Emmeline  Ames.  I  don't  know  what  your 
name  is,  either." 

" My  name  is  Guy  Russell.  I  am  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Russell's  nephew.  My  father  and 
mother  died  when  I  was  a  baby.  When  I 
haven't  been  at  school  I  have  lived  with  my 
aunt  Edith,  but  she  died  last  winter,  and  now 
I  suppose  I  shall  be  here  with  Aunt  Elizabeth 
a  good  deal.  I  enter  Yale  next  fall,  and  next 
summer  I  am  going  abroad." 

Emmeline  felt  a  sinking  at  her  heart. 

" Are  you?"  she  said. 

"Yes.  I  shall  only  be  gone  six  weeks.  I 
shall  be  here  with  Aunt  Elizabeth  the  rest  of 
the  time  when  I  am  not  at  college.  I  am  to 
stay  here  the  rest  of  this  summer." 

"I  am  sorry  your  aunt  Edith  died,"  said 
Emmeline. 

"She  was  just  like  a  mother  to  me,"  said  the 
Boy,  simply. 

Emmeline  felt  very  sorry  for  him.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  had  never  felt  so  sorry  for  any 
one  before.  She  gave  the  Boy's  arm  the  most 
delicate  little  pressure  with  her  hand,  and  he  im 
mediately  pressed  the  arm  closer  against  his  side. 

94 


THE   JOY   OF    YOUTH 

"But  Aunt  Elizabeth  is  all  right,"  said  the 
Boy.  '  *  Do  you  know  her  ? ' ' 

"By  sight,"  replied  Emmeline,  and  she 
spoke  with  a  little  awe.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Russell 
was  a  very  wealthy  woman,  the  only  really 
wealthy  woman  in  the  village.  She  lived  in  a 
most  beautiful  house.  She  had  travelled.  She 
had  wonderful  guests  from  cities  during  the 
summer.  She  mingled  very  little  with  the 
village  people.  She  was  popularly  supposed  to 
be  very  proud,  although  she  was  said  to  be 
charitable,  and  very  pleasant  "when  you  knew 
her."  She  had  once  called  on  Emmeline's 
mother,  and  Mrs.  Ames,  very  particularly 
dressed,  had  returned  the  call,  but  that  was 
when  Emmeline  was  very  young.  She  had 
only  seen  Mrs.  Russell  across  the  church  or 
driving,  but  she  had  always  regarded  her  with 
a  sort  of  feudal  admiration.  "I  think  your 
aunt  Elizabeth  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  warmly. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  assented  the  Boy. 

Then  they  had  reached  Emmeline's  house, 
and  Emmeline  was  trembling  with  irresolution 
as  to  whether  she  ought  or  ought  not  to  invite 
the  Boy  in.  Her  mother  and  Aunt  Martha 
solved  the  question  by  rushing  out  with  ex 
clamations  and  questions.  They  had  just 

95 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

heard  that  Emmeline  had  not  been  at  Anita's 
party,  and  Mr.  John  Adams  was  even  then  on 
another  road  with  some  men  searching  for 
her. 

While  Mrs.  Ames  and  Aunt  Martha  hugged 
Emmeline  and  exclaimed  over  her,  she  and  the 
Boy,  between  them,  told  the  story.  Then 
Emmeline  and  the  Boy  were  in  the  house  at  the 
breakfast- table.  It  seemed  that,  although  the 
Boy  had  already  eaten  one  breakfast,  there  was 
something  about  Annie's  waffles  and  coffee 
and  omelette  which  surpassed  his  aunt's  French 
cook's  efforts.  Emmeline  was  blissfully  watch 
ful  of  the  Boy  while  he  ate.  She  herself  ate, 
but  did  not  seem  to  taste  anything  except  what 
the  Boy  ate. 

"I  wonder  the  dear  child  looks  so  well  after 
such  an  awful  night,"  Aunt  Martha  said  to 
Emmeline's  mother. 

Mrs.  Ames  looked  happily  at  Emmeline's 
pink  cheeks  and  the  blue  delight  of  her  eyes. 
"I  wonder  she  isn't  down  sick,"  said  she.  The 
two  women  looked  approvingly  at  young  Guy 
Russell.  After  he  had  gone,  and  Emmeline 
had  been  put  to  bed,  they  agreed  that  he  looked 
as  if  he  might  grow  to  be  a  splendid  man. 

"I  suppose  he  will  have  all  his  aunt's  money, 
96 


THE   JOY   OF   YOUTH 

too,"  said  Mrs.  Ames.  Then  she  looked 
ashamed  of  herself.  "But  that  is  nothing 
compared  with  his  being  such  a  good,  honest, 
innocent  boy,"  she  said. 

"His  aunt  Edith  Sloan  was  a  splendid  wom 
an,  from  everything  I  have  heard  of  her.  It  is 
easy  to  see  that  the  boy  has  been  brought  up  by 
a  good  woman.  He  shows  it."  Mrs.  Ames  had 
a  dreamy  look  in  her  eyes.  Her  sister  smiled  a 
little  furtive  smile. 

They  both  thought  Emmeline,  up-stairs  in 
her  little  room,  was  asleep,  but  she  was  not. 
She  was  too  happy  to  sleep.  She  was  one  of 
the  very  few  on  the  face  of  this  earth  who  dream 
and  keep  the  precious  crystal  of  the  dream  un- 
shattered  by  the  shock  with  reality. 

It  was  a  week  after  that  that  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Russell  gave  a  party  for  her  nephew,  and 
Emmeline  was  invited.  Mrs.  Russell  sent  her 
carriage  for  her.  Emmeline  had  her  first  silk 
dress  to  wear.  It  was  made  over  from  one  her 
mother  had  worn  when  a  girl.  It  was  white 
silk  sprinkled  with  little  silver  dots.  Emme- 
line's  hair  was  tied  with  a  great  white  bow, 
and  she  had  white  shoes,  and  she  looked,  her 
mother  and  aunt  thought,  the  prettiest  thing 
in  the  world.  ' '  I  am  glad  the  dear  child  doesn't 

97 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

know  what  a  beauty  she  is,"  said  Mrs.  Ames, 
after  the  carriage  had  rolled  away. 

"She  hasn't  an  idea,"  said  Martha. 

Neither  dreamed  that  Emmeline  knew  per 
fectly  well  how  she  looked,  and  that  an  innocent 
rapture  because  of  her  beauty  in  her  silver- 
dotted  gown  seemed  to  perfume  her  very  soul. 
It  is  more  beautiful  than  beauty  itself  to  be 
innocently  conscious  of  it,  and  to  value  it  more 
for  the  sake  of  the  love  of  another  than  for  self- 
love.  Emmeline  reflected  how  pleased  the  Boy 
would  be  with  her  appearance  and  she  tasted 
that  pleasure  instead  of  her  own,  exactly  as  she 
had  tasted  the  breakfast  the  morning  after  he 
had  rescued  her  from  her  prison. 

There  was  a  palm-room  in  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Russell's  house.  An  hour  later  Emmeline  and 
the  Boy  were  in  there.  They  stood  under  some 
great  spreading  fronds  and  looked  out  of  a  wide 
window  at  a  wonderful  sight.  The  lawn  was 
all  dotted  with  swinging  Japanese  lanterns,  and 
electric  lights  made  strange  shadows  which 
seemed  alive.  The  night  looked  like  another 
world,  full  of  mysteries  of  beauty  unfolding 
upon  beauty,  and  joy  upon  joy.  Each  saw 
more  than  there  really  was,  because  each  saw 
with  the  other's  eyes.  They  looked  out  at 
98 


THE   JOY   OF   YOUTH 

the  fairy  night,  then  they  looked  at  each 
other. 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  saw 
in  my  whole  life,"  said  the  Boy,  with  blunt 
fervor.  He  spoke  as  if  he  had  lived  ages. 
The  girl  made  no  disclaimer.  She  believed 
him.  She  gazed  back  at  him  with  radiant  de 
light  in  his  appreciation  of  her. 

The  window  opened  like  a  door.  The  Boy 
threw  it  wide,  and  took  Emmeline's  hand  with 
a  caressing  touch  in  his  hard,  boyish  one. 
"Let's  walk  out  there/'  he  said,  stammeringly. 
He  and  Emmeline  went  out.  They  strolled  arm 
in  arm  along  a  broad  gravel  walk,  and  finally 
sat  down  under  a  tree  swarming  with  brill 
iant  lanterns  like  butterflies.  They  were  quite 
alone.  Most  of  the  guests  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  lawn,  where  refreshments  were  being 
served,  and  where  the  orchestra  played  behind 
some  flowering  bushes.  The  Boy  put  his  arm 
around  the  girl.  "I  love  you,"  he  whispered. 
Emmeline  said  nothing.  She  felt  as  if  some 
divine  fluid  were  coursing  through  all  her  veins. 

"Don't  you  love  me?"  said  the  Boy. 

"Yes,"  replied  Emmeline. 

She  and  the  Boy  kissed  each  other. 

"Then  we  are  engaged,"  said  the  Boy. 
99 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

Emmeline  nodded.  She  looked  at  him,  and 
her  face  of  love,  and  ignorance  of  love,  was 
fairly  dazzling.  The  Boy  kissed  her  again. 
Then  they  sat  still.  The  Boy's  arm  was  around 
the  girl  and  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  Both 
tasted  the  uttermost  joy  of  the  present.  Hap 
piness  stood  still  in  their  heaven. 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 


BILLY  AND   SUSY 

FOR  years  the  sisters,  Miss  Melissa  Abbot 
and  Mrs.  Sarah  Drew,  had  lived  in  peace 
and  concord,  not  in  the  same  house,  but  in 
adjoining  ones.  Mrs.  Drew  had  married  when 
very  young,  and  her  husband  had  lived  only  a 
year.  At  that  time  the  old  Abbot  homestead 
had  been  filled  with  unmarried  sons  and  daugh 
ters,  and  the  young  widow  had  continued  to 
reside  in  the  pretty  little  cottage  which  her 
husband  had  built  for  her.  Now  Miss  Melissa 
had  been  living  alone  for  some  years,  and  so 
had  Mrs.  Drew,  and  people  wondered  why  they 
did  not  keep  house  together,  but  both  were 
women  of  habit,  and  did  not  relish  any  change. 
Moreover,  the  two  houses,  the  square  old  home 
stead  and  the  little  cottage  with  its  piazza  under 
the  overhang  of  the  roof,  were  so  near  that  the 
sisters  could  talk  from  open  windows.  They 
103 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

were  devoted  to  each  other;  in  fact,  they  were 
considered  an  example  of  sisterly  affection  for 
the  whole  village,  until  they  were  both  old 
women  and  the  advent  of  Billy  and  Susy. 
Billy  and  Susy  were  two  remarkably  pretty 
yellow  kittens ;  young  Mira  Holmes  had  brought 
them  over  one  afternoon  in  May,  in  a  covered 
basket.  She  stopped  at  Mrs.  Drew's.  Miss 
Melissa  was  spending  the  afternoon  there. 
She  could  see  both  elderly  heads  at  the  sitting- 
room  windows.  She  knocked,  and  then  ran  in. 
She  was  quite  at  home  there.  She  kissed  both 
sisters,  then  she  opened  the  basket,  and  two 
little  yellow  balls  of  fur  flew  out.  "Our  cat 
had  five,"  said  Mira,  "and  they  were  so  pretty 
we  could  not  bear  to  have  them  drowned.  So 
we  thought  maybe  you  would  like  these.  Nellie 
Stowe  has  two,  and  we  are  going  to  keep  one 
ourselves.  Would  you  like  them?"  Mira 
Holmes  was  a  very  pretty,  slight  girl,  and  she 
had  a  wistful,  affectionate  way  of  speaking,  and 
a  little  pathetic  expression.  Mira  had  been  as 
good  as  engaged  to  Harry  Ay  res,  but  he  had 
ceased  to  visit  her  some  six  months  before. 
Mira  went  her  way  patiently,  but  she  was 
thinner,  and  pathetic,  in  spite  of  everything. 
She  laughed  with  the  old  ladies  when  the  yellow 
104 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

kittens  flew  out  of  the  basket,  but  the  laugh 
was  as  sad  as  a  sob.  The  sisters  were  en 
thusiastic  over  the  gift. 

' '  It  was  only  yesterday  that  sister  and  I  were 
saying  that  we  really  must  have  some  cats; 
we  are  both  overrun  with  mice,"  declared  Mrs. 
Sarah  Drew,  and  she  appropriated  directly  one 
of  the  kittens,  and  folded  it  under  her  soft 
double  chin.  "I  will  call  him  Billy,  after  the 
cat  I  had  when  I  first  came  to  live  here,"  said 
she.  "That  was  a  yellow  cat,  too." 

Miss  Melissa  gathered  up  the  other  kitten  lov 
ingly.  "I  will  call  her  Susy,"  she  announced. 
"  You  remember  I  had  a  yellow  cat  named  Susy, 
once,  sister?" 

Mira  did  not  remain  very  long.  She  went 
her  way  with  her  empty  basket  on  her  arm. 
As  she  went  out  of  the  yard  between  the  bridal- 
wreath  bushes,  and  the  flowering  almond,  and 
the  striped  grass,  her  head  drooped  wearily 
under  her  spring  hat  trimmed  with  rosebuds. 

"Poor  little  thing!"  said  Mrs.  Drew,  pityingly. 

Miss  Melissa  tossed  her  head.  "Good  land!" 
said  she.  "I  guess  she  will  get  another  beau, 
a  girl  as  pretty  as  Mira  Holmes,  and  if  she  doesn't 
it  is  no  matter;  beaux  are  not  everything  in  the 
world.  Girls  are  silly." 
s  105 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Then  Miss  Melissa  turned  toward  her  yellow 
kitten,  but  both  sisters  had  put  the  kittens  on 
the  floor  when  they  bade  farewell  to  Mira, 
and  now  came  disaster:  their  first  quarrel. 
Miss  Melissa  gathered  up  a  kitten  lovingly,  but 
Mrs.  Drew  interposed.  "Stop,  Melissa,"  said 
she;  "that  is  my  kitten,  that  is  my  yellow 
kitten,  that  is  Billy." 

"Why,  Sarah  Drew,"  cried  Miss  Melissa, 
"you  know  better!  You  know  this  is  Susy." 

Mrs.  Drew  caught  up  the  other  yellow  kit 
ten,  and  both  sisters  glared  over  the  little,  soft, 
yellow,  wriggling  things.  "This  is  Susy,"  de 
clared  Melissa. 

"This  is  Susy.  You  have  got  my  cat,"  in 
sisted  Sarah. 

The  kittens  were  exactly  alike  to  the  ordi 
nary  observer,  but  not  to  the  sisters.  "I  know 
I  have  my  Susy, ' '  said  Melissa.  '  *  I  noticed  par 
ticularly  her  expression." 

"Cat's  hind  leg!"  said  Sarah,  contemptu 
ously.  It  was  a  sarcastic  expletive  peculiar 
to  her  herself,  and  in  this  case  more  appro 
priate  than  usual.  "Talk  about  a  cat  having 
expression,"  she  added.  Then  she  laughed  a 
disagreeable  laugh.  Sarah  had  a  temper. 

Miss  Melissa  also  had  a  temper,  but  hers  was 
106 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

of  the  tearful  variety.  Tears  streamed  over  her 
faded  blond  cheeks  —  tears  of  rage  and  hurt 
sentiment.  "Cats  have  expression,"  she  de 
clared,  in  a  hysterical  voice.  "You  can  talk 
all  you  want.  My  Susy  had  the  most  innocent 
expression,  and  this  one  looks  just  like  her. 
Precious  little  Susy  cat!"  she  crooned  to  the 
yellow  kitten. 

"Susy  nothing,"  said  Sarah.  "That  cat  is 
my  Billy,  and  this  is  your  precious  Susy. 
I  wouldn't  have  this  kind  of  a  cat,  any 
way.  They  keep  you  always  drowning  kit 
tens  or  trying  to  give  them  away.  Give  me 
Billy!" 

"You  have  got  Billy  now,"  said  Miss  Melissa, 
tearfully.  "Precious  little  Susy  cat!" 

"That  cat  you  have  is  Billy,"  said  Sarah 
Drew,  with  awful  firmness. 

"You  have  Billy,  and  this  precious  is  Susy," 
returned  Melissa,  with  more  sentiment  but 
equal  obstinacy. 

Neither  would  yield.  Melissa,  grasping  the 
yellow  cat  which  she  claimed  so  tightly  that 
it  clawed  and  mewed,  went  home.  Sarah  Drew 
thrust  the  remaining  cat  viciously  into  the 
kitchen.  "Here,  Abby,"  she  said  to  the  old 
woman  who  had  worked  for  her  ever  since  her 
107 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

marriage,  "take  this  miserable  cat!  Miss  Mira 
brought  it,  but  I  don't  want  it." 

Abby  had  heard  every  word  of  the  dis 
cussion.  She  always  heard:  she  considered 
it  her  duty.  She  gathered  up  the  kitten, 
and  presently  she  came  to  the  sitting-room 
door. 

"Miss  Sarah,"  said  she. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  a  word,"  replied  Sarah, 
shortly  and  haughtily. 

"But—" 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  a  word.  I  know  you 
were  listening,  and  you  always  take  every 
body's  part  against  me.  Now,  you  can  either 
keep  that  miserable  cat  in  the  kitchen  or  drown 
it,  I  don't  care  which,  but  if  you  do  keep  it, 
you  must  dispose  of  the  kittens.  Now,  I  don't 
want  to  hear  another  word." 

Abby,  who  was  as  tall  and  angular  as  a  man, 
went  out. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  she  and  Miss  Melissa's 
girl,  who  was  also  an  old  woman,  had  a  con 
ference  out  in  the  garden,  over  the  fence. 
Each  held  a  yellow  kitten.  They  parted  after 
a  while,  because  Mrs.  Drew  was  seen  standing 
in  the  kitchen  door  watching  them.  But  Maria, 
Miss  Melissa's  maid,  said,  in  a  whisper,  "Both 
1 08 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

of  them  were  always  awful  set,"  and  Abby  nod 
ded  assent. 

Neither  of  the  women  was  a  gossip.  It  was 
nearly  a  month  before  it  leaked  out  that  Melissa 
Abbot  and  Sarah  Drew  had  had  a  quarrel  and 
were  not  on  speaking  terms.  The  two  led  a 
sad  life.  Melissa  got  no  comfort  from  fondling 
her  yellow  cat,  which  grew  in  size  and  beauty. 
Abby  kept  the  other  carefully  from  her  mistress' 
sight,  and  tried  to  cook  things  to  tempt  her 
appetite.  Both  sisters  were  very  unhappy. 
They  had  always  been  of  a  sociable  disposition, 
and  each  was  afraid  to  accept  an  invitation  lest 
she  should  meet  her  sister.  They  stayed  at 
home  and  moped.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
over  the  opposite  windows  in  the  cottage  and 
homestead.  Mrs.  Drew  was  constantly  on  the 
alert,  and  never  stirred  out-of-doors  unless  she 
was  quite  sure  that  her  sister  was  at  home  and 
there  was  no  danger  of  meeting  her  upon  the 
street.  Each  became  afraid  of  venturing  abroad 
unless  the  other  was  housed.  Sarah  Drew 
watched.  Melissa  Abbot  watched.  Each  knew 
that  the  other  watched.  Each  knew  the  other 
so  well  that  she  could  judge  exactly  of  her 
sister's  state  of  mind  from  her  own.  Thus  each 
suffered  doubly. 

109 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

Mira  Holmes  heard  of  the  estrangement,  and 
came  to  see  Mrs.  Drew  about  it.  "I  am  so 
sorry,"  said  she,  and  the  tears,  always  in  her 
heart  for  her  own  trouble,  welled  into  her  patient 
blue  eyes. 

"It  is  nothing  you  are  to  blame  for,  child," 
replied  Sarah  Drew  with  dignity.  Both  sisters 
were  too  proud  to  say  anything  to  each  other's 
detriment.  "It  is  unfortunate  that  the  cats 
looked  so  much  alike,  but  I  can't  see  how  you 
are  responsible  for  that." 

"Maybe  not,"  admitted  Mira.  Then  she 
broke  down,  and  wept.  "I  am  so  sorry  to 
have  been  the  means  of  parting  two  sisters 
like  you,"  she  sobbed.  Her  own  grief  stung 
her  afresh  as  she  wept  for  that  of  the  sis 
ters. 

"You  didn't  part  us,"  replied  Sarah  Drew. 
"It  was  two  yellow  cats  that  looked  exactly 
alike."  She  called  to  Abby  to  make  some  tea 
and  cut  some  sponge-cake.  When  the  tea  and 
cake  arrived  she  served  them  as  calmly  as  if 
there  were  no  yellow  cats  of  confused  identity 
in  the  world.  "Drink  this  tea  and  eat  some 
cake,"  said  she.  "There  is  no  sense  in  making 
yourself  sick.  This  is  a  personal  matter  be 
tween  my  sister  and  myself." 
no 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

"I  wish  they  didn't  look  so  much  alike," 
sobbed  Mira,  trying  to  sip  the  tea. 

"I  can't  see  how  you  are  to  blame  for  that," 
Sarah  Drew  said  again. 

1  'If  I  had  only  brought  one  tiger  cat  and  one 
yellow!  There  were  two  lovely  tigers  that  I 
gave  Nellie  Stowe,"  said  Mira,  pitifully. 

'  *  I  never  liked  tiger  cats ;  I  prefer  yellow  cats, 
but  not  one  of  this  kind,"  said  Sarah  Drew. 
Then  she  changed  the  subject.  "It  is  a  beau 
tiful  day,"  said  she,  "though  it  is  pretty  warm 
for  so  early  in  the  season."  She  talked  at 
length  about  the  weather,  and  how  the  apple- 
trees  were  blooming,  then  she  talked  about  the 
fair  which  the  ladies  of  the  Mission  Circle  were 
to  give.  Whenever  poor  young  Mira  Holmes 
essayed  to  bring  up  the  subject  of  the  yellow 
cats,  Sarah  gently,  but  firmly,  swerved  her  aside. 

When  Mira  left,  she  went  to  make  a  call  upon 
Melissa,  but  her  call  was  just  as  devoid  of  good 
results.  Miss  Melissa  was  much  more  reserved 
than  her  sister  upon  the  subject.  She  even 
refused  to  justify  herself  in  her  conduct.  The 
only  thing  she  did  was  to  call  Maria  and  ask 
her  to  take  Susy  out  of  the  room.  The  kitten 
had  been  curled  up  in  a  little  coil  of  yellow  fur 
upon  the  sofa  when  Mira  entered.  Poor  Mira 
in 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

had  to  drink  another  cup  of  tea,  and  eat  more 
sponge-cake  made  from  the  identical  recipe 
of  the  other;  then  she  went  home.  On  her  way 
home  she  met  Harry  Ayres,  the  young  man  to 
whom  she  had  been  engaged,  and  he  hardly 
noticed  her,  simply  raising  his  hat  without  a 
smile,  as  if  she  had  been  a  stranger.  Mira 
scarcely  inclined  her  pretty  head.  When  she 
reached  home,  however,  she  found  a  certain 
comfort  in  throwing  herself  openly  into  a  chair 
and  weeping,  and  sobbing  out  to  her  mother 
how  badly  she  felt  about  Mrs.  Drew  and  Miss 
Melissa  and  the  two  yellow  cats.  She  had  felt 
obliged  to  conceal  her  tears  heretofore  from  her 
mother.  Now  it  was  a  comfort  to  weep  before 
her  for  something  for  which  she  need  not  be 
ashamed,  and  at  the  same  time  weep  for  her 
own  private  misery. 

If  Mira's  mother  knew  that  the  girl  was 
weeping  for  something  besides  the  complica 
tion  of  the  cats,  she  did  not  show  it.  She  was 
a  very  gentle,  soft- voiced  woman,  with  beautiful 
rippling  folds  of  yellow  hair  over  her  ears.  She 
stroked  Mira's  head.  "Don't,  dear,"  said  she. 
"You  are  not  to  blame." 

"I  thought  they  would — like  the — cats," 
sobbed  Mira. 

112 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

"Of  course  you  did,  dear.  Don't  feel  so. 
I  will  go  over  and  see  them  myself  to-morrow 
afternoon.  I  have  an  errand  about  the  fair, 
and  I  will  see  if  I  can't  do  something." 

"Miss  Melissa  may  be  mistaken,  and  Mrs. 
Drew  may  be  mistaken;  nobody  knows,"  said 
Mira. 

"If  they  are,  it  will  be  very  hard  for  them 
to  give  in,"  said  Mrs.  Holmes.  "They  are  nice 
women,  but  they  were  always  very  set.  They 
were  when  I  used  to  go  to  school  with  them. 
But  I  will  see  what  I  can  do." 

It  ended  in  Mrs.  Holmes  drinking  tea  and 
eating  sponge-cake  in  both  houses,  and  coming 
away  exactly  as  Mira  had  done.  It  ended  in 
the  same  way  for  many  others.  Many  good 
women  called,  and  drank  tea  and  ate  sponge 
cake  and  tried  to  make  peace  between  the 
sisters,  and  came  away  realizing  that  their  effort 
had  been  fruitless.  Even  the  minister's  wife 
drank  tea  and  ate  sponge-cake,  and  the  minister 
himself  drank,  and  ate,  and  offered  prayer  in 
vain.  After  his  call  the  sisters  did  not  attend 
church  at  all.  Previously  they  had  gone  to 
church,  but  had  sat  in  different  pews,  leaving 
the  old  Abbot  pew  quite  unoccupied.  Both 
Miss  Melissa  and  Mrs.  Drew,  on  the  Sunday 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

after  the  minister's  call,  watched  with  secret 
pride  and  approved  each  other's  staying  at 
home  from  church.  Although  at  bitter  enmity 
with  her,  each  sister  felt  that  she  should  have 
been  personally  mortified  had  she  seen  the  other 
emerge  from  her  front  door,  clad  in  her  Sabbath 
best,  after  the  minister's  call  and  his  direct  im 
portunities  at  the  throne  of  grace  that  they  of 
the  Abbot  family  should  see  the  error  of  their 
ways. 

Miss  Melissa  caressed  her  yellow  cat,  and  said, 
aloud:  ''Well,  I  am  glad  she  has  some  pride, 
if  she  hasn't  anything  else";  and  Mrs.  Drew 
told  Abby,  after  the  church  bell  had  done  ring 
ing,  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  keep  that 
miserable  cat,  to  be  sure  it  had  plenty  of  milk 
and  no  meat  until  it  was  older,  for  fear  of  fits, 
and  added  that  if  she  had  to  keep  animals  that 
belonged  to  other  folks  she  did  not  want  them 
neglected  under  her  roof  anyway. 

That  Sunday  there  was  almost  a  rift  in  the 
cloud  of  dissension  between  the  sisters,  a  rift 
based  upon  common  pride  and  resentment  of 
interference:  an  unworthy  rift  of  unnatural 
sunlight  of  forgiveness  caused  by  anger  against 
another.  But  it  did  not  last.  By  the  next 
Sunday,  neither  expecting  the  other  to  go  to 
114 


BILLY  AND   SUSY 

church,  each  realized  a  complete  return  of  the 
old  bitterness.  And  the  bitterness,  as  the 
days  and  weeks  went  on,  caused  more  and  more 
unhappiness.  The  two  old  women  were  fight 
ing  with  two-edged  swords,  which  they  who  love 
and  fight  must  always  use,  and  every  time  one 
inflicted  a  wound  upon  the  other  she  hurt 
herself.  People  began  to  say  that  the  sisters 
were  aging  terribly.  Finally  the  doctor  was 
seen  stopping  every  day  at  both  houses,  then 
the  news  was  spread  abroad  that  the  sisters 
had  been  told  that  they  must  have  a  change  of 
scene.  They  were  not  wealthy  enough  to  have 
a  change  of  scene,  unless  it  took  the  form  of  a 
visit.  Then  Miss  Melissa  went  to  pay  her 
married  brother,  Thomas  Abbot,  who  lived  in 
Springfield,  a  visit,  and  Mrs.  Drew  went  to  pay 
her  married  sister  Eliza,  who  lived  in  New  York 
State,  a  visit,  and  Abby  and  Maria  took  care 
of  their  houses  and  the  two  yellow  cats.  Now 
and  then  they  had  letters  from  the  sisters, 
which  stated  that  they  were  improving  in 
health,  but  one  day  the  two  old  servants, 
knee-deep  in  catnip  and  with  their  skirts 
catching  in  a  tangle  of  sweetbrier,  talking  over 
the  back  fence,  agreed  that  their  mistresses  did 
not  write  as  if  they  were  happy. 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"I  know  Mis'  Drew,"  said  Abby.  "She  can 
set  up  as  stiff  as  she's  a  mind  to,  but  she  can't 
cheat  me.  She'll  never  be  herself  ag'in  till  she 
and  her  sister  make  up .  When  two  women  have 
lived  as  many  years  as  they  have,  and  thought 
so  much  of  each  other,  it's  goin'  to  take  some- 
thin'  more'n  a  quarrel  over  two  yeller  cats  to 
make  them  live  this  way  and  be  jest  as  chipper 
as  if  no  thin'  had  happened." 

"I  know  Miss  Melissa  never  will  be  the  same," 
said  Maria.  "She's  tried  to  make  out  as  if  she 
set  the  earth  by  that  cat,  but  I've  seen  her 
look  as  if  she'd  like  to  pitch  it  out  of  the 
winder." 

"It's  a  pity  they  wouldn't  neither  of  them 
let  us  tell  them,"  said  Abby. 

"Well,  they  wouldn't.  The  minute  I  begun 
to  speak  I  was  hushed  up,  and  so  was  you," 
said  Maria. 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  said  Abby.  "Guess  I'll 
take  in  some  of  this  catnip  for  the  cat.  It 
won't  last  much  longer,  and  I  guess  I'll  dry 
some." 

"I  guess  I  will,  too,"  said  Maria.  "It  looks 
something  like  frost  to-night." 

"There  won't  be  a  frost  unless  the  wind 
goes  down,"  returned  Abby.  Her  gray  hair 
116 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

whipped  about  her  face  as  she  picked  a  great 
bunch  of  catnip. 

"It  does  blow.  When  do  you  expect  her 
home?" 

"She  hasn't  said  anything  about  coming. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  didn't  come  before 
Thanksgiving.  When  do  you  expect  her?" 

"I  don't  know  any  more  than  you  do.  Good 
land!  It  will  be  a  queer  Thanksgiving  if  they 
don't  make  up  first!" 

"Maybe  they  will." 

"They're  awful  set,  both  of  them." 

"Well,"  said  Abby,  "they  may  hate  each 
other  like  poison  for  the  rest  of  their  natural 
lives.  They  may  be  set  about  that,  but 
there's  some  things  they  can't  be  set  about, 
nohow." 

Both  women  laughed  as  they  parted,  and 
went  their  ways  with  bundles  of  catnip. 

It  was  a  week  before  Thanksgiving  when  Miss 
Melissa  came  home,  and  Mrs.  Drew  arrived  the 
next  day.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
when  Melissa,  with  her  white  hood  over  her 
head,  muffled  against  the  bitter  wind  in  her  soft 
gray  shawl,  entered  the  south  door,  just  as  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  do.  "So  you've  got 
home,  Sarah?"  said  she.  She  was  pale  and  red 
117 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

by  turns.  She  looked  afraid  and  troubled,  and 
yet  as  if  she  wanted  to  laugh.  Mrs.  Drew  had 
much  the  same  shift  of  expression. 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "I  came  on  the  half-past- 
three  train.  Sit  down." 

Melissa  sat  down. 

"Take  your  things  off  and  stay  to  supper. 
Abby's  making  cream-of-tartar  biscuits.  Did 
you  have  a  pleasant  visit  at  Thomas's?" 

*  *  Very  pleasant ,  thank  you . " 

"How  are  they  all?  How  is  Thomas's  wife? 
Is  Grace  well?" 

"They  both  seem  real  well.  Did  you  have  a 
pleasant  visit  at  Eliza's?" 

"Very  pleasant,  thank  you." 

"How  is  Eliza?  Is  Henry  getting  on  well 
in  his  law-office,  and  how  is  Lizzie?" 

"They  all  seem  real  well,  and  Henry  is  smart 
as  a  whip.  Eliza  has  a  beautiful  new  winter 
cloak." 

There  was  a  silence.  Miss  Melissa's  face  red 
dened  and  paled,  then  reddened.  She  laughed 
nervously.  "Oh,"  said  she,  "I  have  something 
to  say  to  you,  Sarah." 

"Well?" 

"It's  nothing,  only — I  feel  as  if  I  must  tell 
you,  I — was  right — Billy  is  Susy,  and  she's 
118 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

got  five  kittens.  They  haven't  got  their  eyes 
open  yet." 

Mrs.  Drew  laughed.     "Susy,  is  she?" 

"Yes.     You  must  have  been  mistaken." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  was;  but  as  for  Billy's  being 
Susy,  well — •"  Mrs.  Drew  gave  a  long  sigh. 
Then  she  laughed  again,  a  sharp  cackle  of 
nervous  mirth. 

Miss  Melissa  stared  at  her.  She  looked  re 
lieved,  but  a  little  alarmed.  "I'm  glad  you 
don't  lay  it  up,"  said  she,  "but—" 

"Just  wait  a  minute.     Abby!" 

Abby  opened  the  door. 

"Bring  in  that  basket,  please,  Abby,"  said 
Mrs.  Drew. 

Melissa  looked  at  her  sister  with  such  curios 
ity  that  her  face  assumed  a  vacant  expression. 
Mrs.  Drew  continued  to  laugh.  Finally  Melissa 
joined  in,  although  unwillingly.  "What  in  the 
world  we  are  laughing  at  I  don't  see,"  she 
tittered. 

"Because  we've  been  a  pair  of  fools,"  said 
Mrs.  Drew,  as  Abby  returned.  She  set  down 
on  the  floor  before  the  two  old  women  a  basket 
in  which  lay  curled  up  a  yellow  mother  cat 
luxuriously  purring  love  to  some  yellow  kittens. 

"There  are  four  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Drew, 
119 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"all  yellow,  and  they  have  had  their  eyes  opened 
some  time." 

Miss  Melissa  stared  at  the  cat  and  kittens, 
then  at  her  sister. 

"Then—"  she  began. 

"They  were  both  Susy,"  said  Mrs.  Drew, 
"and  we  quarrelled  over  nothing  at  all." 

"Sarah—" 

"Well?" 

"I  had  made  up  my  mind,  anyway,  to 
come  over  here  and  ask  you  to  forgive  me, 
and  take  my  Susy  if  you  thought  she  was 
Billy." 

"And  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go  over  to 
your  house,  anyway,  and  ask  you  to  forgive  me, 
and  keep  Billy  if  you  thought  he  was  Susy," 
said  Mrs.  Drew. 

Then  the  two  women  laughed  in  chorus. 
"No  Billy  at  all,"  said  Miss  Melissa,  giggling 
like  a  girl. 

"And  two  old  women  making  themselves 
ridiculous,  fighting  over  two  yellow  cats,"  said 
Mrs.  Drew. 

Out  in  the  kitchen  Abby  echoed  their  mirth 
with  an  irrestrainable  peal  of  laughter. 

"Mira  Holmes  and  Harry  Ay  res  have  made 
up  and  are  going  to  be  married,  Abby  tells  me," 
120 


BILLY   AND   SUSY 

said  Mrs.  Drew.  "I  mean  she  shall  have  two 
of  those  yellow  kittens." 

"I  hate  to  have  my  Susy's  [drowned,"  said 
Melissa.  "Maria  says  she  thinks  we  can  give 
them  away.  They  are  beautiful  kittens:  all 
yellow,  just  like  these.  Of  course,  you  are 
coming  over  to  dinner  to-morrow,  Sarah.  Maria 
has  the  Thanksgiving  cooking  all  done." 

"I'd  like  to  see  myself  doing  anything  else," 
said  Mrs.  Drew. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Melissa. 

"What?" 

"I'll  send  over  and  ask  Mira  and  her  mother 
and  Harry  to  supper  to-morrow  night.  I  sup 
pose  they'll  go  to  his  folks  to  dinner,  but  maybe 
they'll  like  to  come  to  supper.  Maria  has  made 
some  chicken  pies." 

"I  think  that  is  a  real  good  idea,"  said  Sarah 
Drew,  warmly. 

So  it  happened  that  Thanksgiving  evening  the 
old  Abbot  house  was  brightly  lighted,  and  after 
supper  the  sisters,  Mira  and  her  mother,  and 
Harry  Ayres  all  sat  in  the  best  parlor  in  the  old 
Abbot  house,  before  the  hearth-fire.  It  was  so 
pleasant  that  Mira  had  begged  not  to  have  the 
lamp  lighted.  She  wore  a  red  gown,  and  the 
firelight  played  over  her  pretty  face  and  over 

9  121 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

her  lover's,  and  the  two  held  hands  under  a  fold 
of  the  red  gown,  and  trusted  that  nobody  saw 
in  the  uncertain  light. 

"I  thought  maybe  you  would  like  to  have 
two  of  the  kittens  when  you  begin  housekeep 
ing,"  Mrs.  Drew  was  saying. 

"That  house  your  father  has  bought  for  you 
is  the  handsomest  in  the  village,"  Miss  Melissa 
said  to  Harry;  "but  it  is  old,  and  I  never  saw 
an  old  house  yet  where  there  weren't  mice." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Mira's  mother,  in  her 
soft  voice. 

"I  think  that  is  a  grand  idea,  thank  you, 
Mrs.  Drew,"  Harry  said,  in  his  pleasant,  happy, 
boyish  voice. 

"I  should  love  to  have  them,  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Drew,"  said  Mira. 

Neither  she  nor  her  young  lover  dreamed 
that  the  love  in  the  hearts  of  the  two  old  sis 
ters  struck,  albeit  free  from  all  romance,  a  note 
which  chorded  with  their  own  into  a  true  har 
mony  of  thanksgiving. 


THE   SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA 
LAMKIN 


THE    SELFISHNESS    OF 
AMELIA    LAMKIN 

IT  was  a  morning  in  late  February.  The 
day  before  there  had  been  a  storm  of  un 
usually  damp,  clogging  snow,  which  had  lodged 
upon  everything  in  strange,  shapeless  masses. 
The  trees  bore  big  blobs  of  snow,  caught  here 
and  there  in  forks  or  upon  extremities.  They 
looked  as  if  the  northwester  had  pelted  them 
with  snowballs.  Below  the  rise  of  ground  on 
which  the  Lamkin  house  stood  there  was  a  low 
growth  of  trees,  and  they  resembled  snowball- 
bushes  in  full  bloom.  Amelia  Lamkin  at  her 
breakfast  -  table  could  see  them.  There  were 
seven  persons  at  the  breakfast  -  table :  Josiah 
Lamkin  and  his  wife  Amelia ;  Annie  Sears,  the 
eldest  daughter,  who  was  married  and  lived  at 
home;  Addie  Lamkin,  the  second  daughter,  a 

125 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

pretty  girl  of  eighteen;  Tommy  Lamkin,  aged 
thirteen;  little  Johnny  Field,  a  child  of  four, 
an  orphan  grandchild  of  Amelia  Lamkin;  and 
Jane  Strong,  Amelia's  unmarried  sister,  who  was 
visiting  her.  Annie  Sears  was  eating,  with 
dainty  little  bites,  toast  and  eggs  prepared  in  a 
particular  way.  She  was  delicate,  and  careful 
about  her  diet.  The  one  maid  in  the  household 
was  not  trusted  to  prepare  Annie's  eggs.  Amelia 
did  that.  She  was  obliged  to  rise  early  in  any 
case.  Harry  Sears,  Annie's  husband,  left  for 
the  city  at  seven  o'clock,  and  he  was  also  par 
ticular  about  his  eggs,  although  he  was  not 
delicate.  Addie  loathed  eggs  in  any  form  ex 
cept  an  omelet,  and  Hannah,  the  maid,  could 
not  achieve  one.  Therefore,  Amelia  cooked 
Addie 's  nice,  fluffy  omelet.  Tommy  was  not 
particular  about  quality,  but  about  quantity, 
and  Amelia  had  that  very  much  upon  her  mind. 
Johnny's  rice  was  cooked  in  a  special  way  which 
Hannah  had  not  mastered,  and  Amelia  pre 
pared  that.  Josiah  liked  porterhouse  beefsteak 
broiled  to  an  exact  degree  of  rareness,  and 
Hannah  could  not  be  trusted  with  that.  Han 
nah's  coffee  was  always  muddy,  and  the  Lam- 
kins  detested  muddy  coffee;  therefore,  Amelia 
made  the  coffee. 

126 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

Hannah's  morning  duties  resolved  them 
selves  into  standing  heavily  about,  resting  her 
weight  first  upon  one  large  flat  foot,  then  upon 
the  other,  while  her  mistress  prepared  breakfast, 
then  waiting  upon  the  table  in  an  absent, 
desultory  fashion.  There  was  a  theory  in  the 
Lamkin  household  that  poor  Hannah  worked 
very  hard,  since  she  was  the  only  maid  in  a 
family  of  seven.  The  neighbors  also  acquiesced 
in  that  opinion,  and  Hannah  herself  felt  pleas 
antly  and  comfortably  injured.  Nobody  pitied 
Amelia  Lamkin,  least  of  all  her  own  family. 
She  had  always  waited  upon  them  and  obliter 
ated  herself  to  that  extent  that  she  seemed 
scarcely  to  have  a  foothold  at  all  upon  the  earth, 
but  to  balance  timidly  upon  the  extreme  edge 
of  existence.  Now  and  then  Amelia's  unmarried 
sister,  Jane  Strong,  visited  the  Lamkins,  and 
always  expressed  her  unsolicited  opinion.  The 
Lamkins  were  justly  incensed,  and  even  Amelia 
herself  bristled  her  soft  plumage  of  indignation. 
She  would  say  privately  to  her  sister  that  she 
realized  that  she  meant  well,  but  she  did  wish 
that  she  would  let  her  live  her  own  way  without 
interference;  that  she,  Amelia,  got  her  happi 
ness  in  ways  that  Jane  could  not  understand. 
Amelia  would  be  quite  disagreeable,  and  her 
127 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

references  to  Jane's  single  condition  would  be 
obvious ;  then  later,  being  gentle  to  the  very  core, 
she  would  beg  Jane's  pardon,  which  would 
be  granted  stiffly,  without  the  slightest  retreat 
from  the  position  of  attack.  ' '  Of  course  I  don't 
mind  a  straw  about  what  you  threw  out  about 
my  not  being  married,"  said  Jane.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  was  my  own 
choice." 

4 'Of  course,"  responded  Amelia,  meekly, 
but  she  looked  reminiscent.  She  was  trying  to 
remember  what  serious  suitors  Jane  had  really 
had.  Jane  saw  the  expression  and  understood. 
She  was  nothing  if  not  honest. 

"Land!  I  don't  mean  to  say  there  was  a 
line  of  men  on  their  knees  to  marry  me,"  she 
said,  brusquely.  "There  wasn't  a  run  as  there 
was  on  that  New  York  bank,  and  men  hanging 
round  from  dawn  till  dark.  Most  of  them  got 
married  afterward,  and  I  guess  they  were  pretty 
well  satisfied,  and  I  don't  believe  one  of  them 
lost  a  meal  of  victuals  or  a  night's  sleep.  But 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  there  were 
chances  I  might  have  followed  up  if  I  want 
ed  to." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Amelia,  with  more 
assurance.  Really  she  had  no  doubt  that  if  her 
128 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

sister  had  chosen  to  follow  up  any  man,  even 
her  own  husband  Josiah,  he  might  have  capit 
ulated.  There  had  always  been  something 
fascinating  about  Jane,  and  she  had  been  and 
was  still  handsome.  She  was  much  handsomer 
than  Amelia,  although  she  was  ten  years  older. 
Amelia  was  faded  almost  out  as  to  color,  and 
intense  solicitude  for  others  and  perfect  meek 
ness  had  crossed  her  little  face  with  deep  lines, 
and  bowed  her  slender  figure  like  that  of  a 
patient  old  horse,  accustomed  to  having  his 
lameness  ignored,  and  standing  before  doors  in 
harness  through  all  kinds  of  weather.  Amelia's 
neck,  which  was  long  and  slender,  had  the  same 
curve  of  utter  submission  which  one  sees  in  the 
neck  of  a  weary  old  beast  of  burden.  She 
would  slightly  raise  that  drooping  neck  to  ex 
postulate  with  Jane.  There  would  be  a  faint 
suggestion  of  ancient  spirit;  then  it  would  dis 
appear.  Jane,  her  own  chin  raised  splendidly, 
eyed  her  sister  with  a  sort  of  tender  resent 
ment  and  contempt. 

"Of  course  you  know,"  said  Jane,  "that  I'm 
enough  sight  better  off  the  way  I  am.  I'm  freer 
than  any  married  woman  in  the  world.  Then 
I've  kept  my  looks.  My  figure  is  just  as  good 
as  it  ever  was,  and  my  hair's  just  as  thick  and 
129 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

not  a  thread  of  gray.  I  suppose  the  time's  got 
to  come,  if  I  live  long  enough,  that  I  shall  look 
in  my  glass,  and  see  my  skin  yellow  and  flabby; 
but  now  the  only  change  is  that  I'm  settled  past 
change.  I  know  that  means  I'm  not  young, 
and  some  may  think  not  as  good-looking,  but 
I  am."  Jane  regarded  her  sister  with  a  sort  of 
defiance.  What  she  said  was  true.  Her  face 
was  quite  as  handsome  as  in  her  youth;  all  the 
change  lay  in  the  fact  of  its  impregnability  to 
the  shift  and  play  of  emotions.  A  laugh  no 
longer  transformed  her  features.  These  reigned 
triumphant  over  mirth  and  joy,  even  grief. 
She  was  handsome,  but  she  was  not  young. 
She  was  immovably  Jane  Strong. 

1  'I  think  you  are  just  as  good-looking  as 
you  ever  were,"  replied  Amelia.  As  she  spoke 
she  gave  a  gentle  sigh.  Amelia,  after  all,  was 
human.  As  a  girl  she  had  loved  the  soft,  sweet 
face,  suffused  with  bloom  like  an  apple  blos 
som,  which  she  had  seen  in  her  looking-glass. 
She  had  enjoyed  arranging  the  pretty,  fair  hair 
around  it.  Now  that  enjoyment  was  quite  gone 
out  of  her  life.  The  other  face  had  been  so  dear 
and  pleasant  to  see.  She  could  not  feel  the 
same  toward  this  little  seamed  countenance, 
with  its  shade  of  grayish  hair  over  the  lined 
130 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

temples,  and  its  meek,  downward  arc  of  thin 
lips.  However,  she  told  herself,  with  a  little 
feeling  of  self-scorn,  that  she,  Josiah  Lamkin's 
wife,  and  mother  and  grandmother,  could  not 
possibly  be  so  foolish  as  to  regret  the  loss  of 
her  beauty  when  she  could  see  it  renewed  so 
many- fold  in  the  faces  of  her  loved  ones.  She 
told  herself  that  she  was  so  thankful  that  her 
husband  had  kept  his  looks  so  well.  Josiah, 
although  older  than  she,  was  still  fresh-colored 
and  full-faced,  and  he  had  not  a  gray  hair. 
Amelia  knew  that  it  would  have  been  harder  for 
her  to  see  her  husband's  face  grown  old  and 
worn  in  the  faithful  mirror  of  her  heart  than  to 
view  her  own  altered  face  in  her  looking-glass. 
When  Amelia  sighed,  Jane  looked  at  her  with 
a  sort  of  angry  pity.  "You  might  be  just  as 
good-looking  as  you  ever  were  if  you  had  taken 
decent  care  of  yourself,  and  not  worn  yourself 
out  for  other  folks,"  said  she.  "There  was 
no  real  need  of  your  getting  all  bent  over, 
no  older  than  you  were,  and  no  need  of  your 
hair  getting  so  thin  and  gray.  You  ought  to 
have  taken  the  time  to  put  a  tonic  on  it,  and 
you  ought  to  have  stretched  yourself  out  on 
the  bed  a  good  hour  every  afternoon,  and  re 
membered  to  hold  your  shoulders  back." 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"I  haven't  had  much  time  to  lie  down  every 
afternoon." 

"You  might  have  had  if  you  had  set  others 
to  doing  what  they  ought,  instead  of  doing  it 
yourself." 

Amelia  bristled  again,  this  time  with  more 
vigor.  "You  know,"  said  she,  "that  Hannah 
can't  cook.  It  isn't  in  her." 

"I'd  get  a  girl  who  could  cook,"  returned 
Jane,  setting  her  lips  hard  and  doubling  her 
chin  in  an  obstinate  fashion. 

"I  can't  discharge  Hannah  after  all  the  years 
she  has  been  with  me.  She  is  honest  and 
faithful." 

"Faithful  nothing!" 

"She  is  faithful,"  said  Amelia,  with  decision. 
"She  is  cranky,  too,  and  I  doubt  if  she  could 
stay  long  with  anybody  except  me.  I  know 
just  how  to  manage  her." 

"She  knows  just  how  to  manage  you.  They 
all  do." 

"Jane  Strong,  I  won't  hear  you  talk  so  about 
my  family  and  poor  Hannah." 

"I  should  think  it  was  poor  Amelia." 

"I  have  everything  to  be  thankful  for," 
said  Amelia.  "I  have  the  best  husband  and 
children  that  ever  a  woman  had,  and  Hannah 
132 


SELFISHNESS  OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

is  just  as  faithful  as  she  can  be ;  and  as  for  the 
cooking,  you  know  I  always  liked  to  do  it, 
Jane." 

"Yes,  you  always  liked  to  do  everything  that 
everybody  else  didn't;  no  doubt  about  that. 
And  you  always  pretended  you  liked  to  eat 
everything  that  everybody  else  didn't." 

"I  have  everything  I  want  to  eat." 

"What  did  you  make  your  breakfast  of  this 
morning?"  demanded  Jane. 

Amelia  reflected.  She  colored  a  little,  then 
she  looked  defiantly  at  her  sister.  "Beefsteak, 
and  omelet,  and  biscuit,  and  coffee,"  said  she. 

Jane  sniffed.  "Yes,  a  little  scraggy  bit  of 
steak  that  Josiah  didn't  want,  and  that  little 
burnt  corner  of  Addie's  omelet,  and  that  under 
crust  of  Tommy's  biscuit,  and  a  muddy  cup  of 
watered  coffee,  after  all  the  others  had  had  two 
cups  apiece.  You  needn't  think  I  didn't  see. 
Amelia  Lamkin,  you  are  a  fool!  You  are  kill 
ing  yourself,  and  you  are  hurting  your  whole 
family  and  that  good-for-nothing  Hannah 
thrown  in." 

Then  Amelia  looked  at  Jane  with  sudden 
distress.  "What  do  you  mean,  Jane?"  she 
quavered. 

"Just  what  I  say.  You  are  simply  making 
133 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

your  whole  family  a  set  of  pigs,  and  Hannah 
too,  and  you  know  you  have  an  awful  responsi 
bility  toward  an  ignorant  person  like  that,  and 
you  are  ruining  your  own  health." 

"I  am  very  well,  indeed,  Jane,"  said  Amelia, 
but  she  spoke  with  a  slight  hesitation. 

''You  are  not  well.  No  mortal  woman  who 
has  lived  her  whole  life  on  the  fag  ends  of  food 
and  rest  and  happiness  that  nobody  else  had 
any  use  for  can  be  well.  You  hear  about  dogs 
feeding  on  crumbs,  and  I  suppose  they  may 
thrive  on  them,  though  I  never  saw  a  dog  yet 
that  didn't  seem  to  me  to  get  along  better  on 
bones  with  considerable  meat  sticking  to  them ; 
but  you  don't  hear  about  human  beings  living 
in  such  a  fashion,  and  it  isn't  required  of  them. 
You've  been  doing  your  duty  all  your  life  so 
hard  that  you  haven't  given  other  people  a 
chance  to  do  theirs.  You've  been  a  very  self 
ish  woman  as  far  as  duty  is  concerned,  Amelia 
Lamkin,  and  you  have  made  other  people  selfish. 
If  Addie  marries  Arthur  Henderson,  what  kind 
of  a  wife  will  she  make  after  the  way  you  have 
brought  her  up  ?  He's  a  poor  man,  and  Addie 
has  no  more  idea  of  waiting  on  herself  than  if  she 
were  a  millionairess." 

"I  don't  know  that  they  have  come  to  an 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

understanding  yet,"  said  Amelia,  and  as  she 
spoke  she  blushed  softly.  She  was  as  delicate 
over  her  daughter's  romance  as  over  her  own. 

"Oh,  they  will,"  said  Jane,  with  a  sniff, 
"though  I  don't  see,  for  my  part,  what  Addie 
Lamkin,  with  her  looks,  is  in  such  a  hurry  for. 
I  don't  mean  that  Arthur  Henderson  isn't  well 
enough,  but  Addie  might  do  better  when  it 
comes  to  money." 

"Money  isn't  everything." 

"It  is  a  good  deal,"  responded  Jane,  sen- 
tentiously,  "and  I  guess  Addie  Lamkin  will  find 
it  is  if  she  marries  Arthur  Henderson  and  has 
to  live  on  next  to  nothing  a  year,  with  every 
thing  going  up  the  way  it  is  now,  when  you  have 
to  stretch  on  your  tiptoes  and  reach  your  arms 
up  as  if  you  were  hanging  for  dear  life  to  a  strap 
on  a  universe  trolley-car  to  keep  going  at  all." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  they  have  even  thought 
of  marriage  yet,"  said  Amelia. 

"Lord!"  said  Jane,  with  infinite  scorn.  After 
a  little  she  continued:  "I  don't  care.  You 
are  miserable.  You  can't  hide  it  from  me. 
You  have  lost  flesh.  You  needn't  pretend  you 
haven't.  You  don't  weigh  nearly  as  much  as 
you  did  when  I  was  here  last  fall." 

"I  haven't  been  weighed  lately." 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"You  don't  need  to  get  weighed.  You  can 
tell  by  your  clothes.  That  gray  silk  dress  you 
wore  last  night  fairly  hung  on  you." 

"I  always  went  up  and  down  in  my  weight; 
you  know  I  did,  Jane." 

"One  of  these  days  you  will  go  down  and 
never  come  up,"  retorted  Jane,  with  grim  as 
surance.  Then  Addie  Lamkin,  young  and 
vigorous  and  instinct  with  beauty  and  health, 
marched  into  the  room,  and  in  her  wake  trailed 
Annie,  sweet  and  dainty  in  a  pale  blue  cashmere 
wrapper. 

Addie,  with  her  young  cheeks  full  of  roses, 
with  her  young  yellow  hair  standing  up  crispy 
above  her  full  temples,  with  her  blue  eyes  blaz 
ing,  with  her  red  mouth  pouting,  opened  fire. 
"Now,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Addie,  "you  know  we 
always  like  to  have  you  visit  us,  but  Annie  and  I 
couldn't  help  overhearing — the  door  has  been 
open  all  the  time — and  we  have  made  up  our 
minds  to  speak  right  out  and  tell  you  what  we 
think.  We  love  to  have  you  here,  don't  we, 
Annie?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  we  love  to  have  you,  Aunt 
Jane,"  assented  Annie,  in  her  soft  voice,  which 
was  very  like  her  mother's. 

Amelia  made  a  little  distressed  noise. 
136 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

" Don't  you  say  a  word,  mother,"  said  Addie. 
1  'We  are  going  to  say  just  what  we  think.  We 
have  made  up  our  minds."  Addie's  face  had 
the  expression  of  one  who  dives.  ''We  simply 
can't  have  you  making  mother  miserable,  Aunt 
Jane,"  said  she,  "and  you  might  just  as  well 
understand .  DOE  '  t  you  agree  with  me ,  Annie  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Annie. 

"Don't,  dear,"  said  Amelia. 

"I  must,"  Addie  replied,  firmly.  "We  both 
feel  that  it  is  our  duty.  We  both  love  Aunt 
Jane,  and  we  are  not  lacking  in  respect  to  her 
as  to  an  older  woman,  but  we  must  do  our 
duty.  We  must  speak.  Aunt  Jane,  you  sim 
ply  must  not  interfere  with  mother.  We  will 
not  have  it." 

Jane's  face  wore  a  curious  expression.  "How 
do  I  interfere?"  asked  she. 

"You  interfere  with  mother's  having  her  own 
way  and  doing  exactly  what  she  likes,"  said 
Addie. 

"And  you  never  do?" 

"No,"  replied  Addie,  "we  never  do.  None 
of  us  do." 

"No,  we  really  don't,"  said  Annie.  She 
spoke  apologetically.  She  was  not  as  direct  as 
Addie. 

137 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Jane  Strong. 
"I  don't  think  any  of  you  ever  do  interfere  with 
your  mother.  You  let  her  have  her  own  way 
about  slaving  for  you  and  waiting  upon  you. 
Your  father  has,  ever  since  he  was  married, 
and  all  you  children  have,  ever  since  you  were 
born;  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  it." 

Addie  looked  fairly  afire  with  righteous 
wrath.  "Really,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  she,  "I 
don't  feel  that,  as  long  as  it  makes  mother's 
whole  happiness  to  live  as  she  does,  you  are 
called  upon  to  hinder  her." 

Amelia  in  her  turn  was  full  of  wrath.  "I  am 
sure  I  don't  want  to  be  hindered,"  said  she. 

"We  know  you  don't,  mother  dear,"  said 
Addie,  "and  you  shall  not  be." 

"You  need  not  worry,"  Jane  said,  slowly. 
"/  shall  not  hinder  your  mother,  but  I  miss  my 
guess  if  she  isn't  hindered."  Then  she  went 
out  of  the  room,  her  head  up,  her  carriage  as 
majestic  as  that  of  a  queen. 

"Aunt  Jane  is  hopping,"  said  Addie,  "but 
I  don't  care;  as  for  having  poor  mother  teased 
and  made  miserable  every  time  she  comes  here, 
I  won't,  for  one!" 

"Your  aunt  has  never  had  a  family  and  she 
doesn't  understand,  dear,"  said  Amelia.  She 
138 


SELFISHNESS  OF   AMELIA  LAMKIN 

was  a  trifle  bewildered  by  her  daughter's  par 
tisanship.  She  was  not  well,  and  had  had 
visions  of  Addie's  offering  to  assist  about  lunch 
eon.  Now  she  realized  that  Addie  would  con 
sider  that  such  an  offer  would  make  her  un 
happy. 

"No,  mother  dear,  you  shall  have  your  own 
way,"  Annie  said,  caressingly.  "Your  own 
family  knows  what  makes  you  happy,  and  you 
shall  do  just  what  you  like."  Annie  put  her 
arm  around  her  mother's  poor  little  waist  and 
kissed  her  softly.  "I  am  feeling  wretchedly 
this  morning,"  said  Annie.  "I  think  I  will 
follow  Doctor  Emerson's  advice  to  wrap  my 
self  up  and  sit  out  on  the  piazza,  an  hour.  I  can 
finish  that  new  book." 

"Mind  you  wrap  up  well,"  Amelia  said, 
anxiously. 

"I  think  I  will  finish  embroidering  my  silk 
waist,"  said  Addie.  "I  want  to  wear  it  to  the 
Simpsons'  party  Saturday  night." 

Then  the  daughters  went  away,  and  Amelia 
Lamkin  went  into  the  kitchen  and  prepared 
some  scalloped  fish  and  a  cake  for  luncheon. 
She  attended  to  some  soup  stock,  and  had 
consultations  with  the  butcher  and  grocer.  She 
also  assisted  Hannah  about  the  breakfast  dishes. 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

Amelia  worked  all  the  morning.  She  did  not 
sit  down  for  a  moment  until  lunch- time.  Then 
suddenly  the  hindrance  which  Jane  Strong  had 
foretold  that  morning  came  without  a  moment's 
warning.  There  had  not  been  enough  fish  left 
from  the  dinner  of  the  day  before  to  prepare 
the  ramekins  for  the  family  and  allow  Tommy 
two,  unless  Amelia  went  without.  She  was 
patiently  eating  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and 
drinking  tea  when  she  fell  over  in  a  faint.  The 
little,  thin  creature  slid  gently  into  her  swoon, 
not  even  upsetting  her  teacup.  She  fainted 
considerately,  as  she  had  always  done  every 
thing  else.  Jane,  who  sat  next  her  sister, 
caught  her  before  she  had  fallen  from  her  chair. 
Josiah  sprang  up,  and  stood  looking  intensely 
shocked  and  perfectly  helpless.  Addie  ran  for 
a  smelling-bottle,  and  Annie  leaped  back  and 
gasped,  as  if  she  were  about  to  faint  herself. 
Tommy  stared,  with  a  spoon  half-way  to  his 
mouth.  Then  he  swallowed  the  contents  of 
the  spoon  from  force  of  habit.  Then  he  stared 
again,  and  turned  pale  under  his  freckles. 
The  baby  cried  and  pounded  the  table  with  his 
fists. 

Amelia's  face,  under  its  thin  film  of  gray  hair, 
was  very  ghastly.  Jane,  supporting  that  poor 
140 


SHE      FAINTED      CONSIDERATELY.     AS      SHE      HAD      ALWAYS       DONE 
EVERYTHING      ELSE 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

head,  looked  impatiently  at  Josiah  standing 
inert,  with  his  fresh  contenance  fixed  in  that 
stare  of  helpless,  almost  angry,  astonishment. 
"For  goodness'  sake,  Josiah  Lamkin,"  said  his 
sister-in-law,  "don't  stand  there  gaping  like 
a  nincompoop,  but  go  for  Doctor  Emerson,  if 
you've  got  sense  enough!"  Jane  came  from 
New  England,  and  in  moments  of  excitement 
she  showed  plainly  the  influence  of  the  land  of 
her  birth.  She  spoke  with  forcible,  almost 
vulgar,  inelegance,  but  she  spoke  with  the  effect 
of  an  Ethan  Allen  or  a  Stark. 

Josiah  moved.  He  made  one  stride  for  the 
door.  Then  he  shot  past  the  window  on  his 
way  for  the  doctor. 

"Stop  fainting  away,  Annie  Sears,"  said 
Jane,  "and  hand  me  that  glass  of  water  for  your 
mother,  then  spank  that  bawling  young  one. 
You  are  no  more  faint  than  I  am.  Tommy,  tell 
Hannah  to  march  up-stairs  lively  and  get  your 
mother's  bed  ready."  Hannah  at  that  moment 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  she  promptly 
dropped  a  cup  of  coffee,  which  crashed  and 
broke  into  fragments  with  a  gush  of  brown 
liquid.  At  the  sound  of  that  crash  there  was  a 
slight  flicker  of  poor  Amelia  Lamkin's  eyelids, 
but  they  immediately  closed.  "Let  that  coffee 
141 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

and  that  cup  be,  now  you  have  smashed  it," 
said  Jane  Strong  to  Hannah,  ''and,  for  goodness' 
sake,  stop  staring,  and  get  up-stairs  lively  and 
get  Mrs.  Lamkin's  bed  ready.  Why  don't  you 
move?" 

Hannah  moved,  and  the  house  shook  with 
the  trembling  thud  of  her  steps  on  the  stairs. 
Annie  came  falteringly  around  with  the  glass 
of  water.  Tommy,  who,  once  awakened  to  the 
situation,  showed  remarkable  sense,  caught  up 
the  morning  paper,  and  fanned  his  mother,  while 
the  tears  rolled  over  his  hard,  boyish  cheeks, 
and  he  gulped  convulsively. 

"Oh,  what  ails  her?"  gasped  Annie,  holding 
the  glass  of  water  to  her  mother's  white  lips. 

Jane  was  pitiless.  "She's  dead,  for  all  I 
know,"  said  she.  "She's  an  awful  time  coming 
to.  For  the  land's  sake,  don't  spill  that  water 
all  over  her!  Dip  your  ringers  in  and  sprinkle 
some  on  her  forehead.  Haven't  you  got  any 
sense  at  all?" 

Annie  sprinkled  her  mother's  forehead  as  if 
she  were   baptizing  her.     "Oh,   what   is   it?" 
she  moaned  again. 

"She's  dfe,d  if  she  ain't  fainted  away,"  said 
Jane.     "How  do  I  know?     But  I  can  tell  you 
what  the  matter  is,  Annie  Sears,  and  you  too, 
142 


SELFISHNESS   OF   AMELIA   LAMKIN 

Addie  Lamkin  "  (for  Addie  was  just  returning 
with  the  little  green  smelling-bottle):  "your 
mother  is  worn  out  with  hard  work  because 
you've  all  been  so  afraid  to  cross  her  in  slaving 
for  everybody  else  and  having  nothing  for  her 
self.  She's  worked  out  and  starved  out." 

Addie,  holding  the  green  bottle  to  her  moth 
er's    little   pinched    nostrils,  aroused    at  that, 
although   her   pretty,   healthy  young  face  re 
tained   a   pale,    shocked  expression.     ''Mother 
isn't  starved,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  she  is,  too,  living  on  odds  and  ends. 
She  hasn't  eaten  a  good  square  meal  since  I've 
been  here.  Hens  can  live  on  such  truck,  but 
your  mother  can't.  She  ain't  a  hen.  Here, 
for  goodness'  sake,  set  down  that  old  smelling- 
bottle,  and,  Tommy,  you  come  here  and  help 
hold  her  head,  and,  Annie,  you  stop  sniffing  and 
shaking  and  help  Addie,  and  we'll  lay  her  down 
on  the  floor.  She'll  never  come  to,  sitting  up." 

"I  knew  that  all  the  time,"  volunteered 
Tommy,  in  a  shaking  voice.  "Teacher  said 
to  lay  Jim  Addison  down  that  time  when  he 
bumped  his  nose  against  his  desk  reaching  down 
for  a  marble  he  dropped." 

Between  them  they  lowered  the  little  inani 
mate  form  to  the  floor,  and  Tommy  got  a  sofa 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

cushion  from  the  sitting-room  and  put  it  under 
his  mother's  head.  Then  Jane  broke  down 
completely.  She  became  hysterical. 

"Oh,  Amelia,  Amelia!"  she  wailed,  in  a  dread 
ful  voice  of  ascending  notes,  "my  sister,  the 
only  sister  I've  got!  Amelia,  speak  to  me! 
Amelia,  can't  you  hear?  Speak  to  me!" 

Annie  sank  down  on  the  floor  beside  her  un 
conscious  mother  and  wept  weakly.  Addie, 
with  her  lips  firmly  set,  rubbed  her  mother's 
hands.  Tommy  fanned  with  all  his  might! 
The  morning  paper  made  a  steady  breeze  above 
the  still,  white  face.  The  baby  had  succeeded 
in  reaching  the  sugar-bowl  and  had  stopped 
crying.  He  was  eating  the  lumps  in  the  bowl, 
with  one  wary  eye  of  mischief  on  the  group. 

Amelia  did  not  revive.  Those  around  her 
became  more  and  more  alarmed.  Hannah 
stood  in  the  door.  She  stammered  out  that  the 
bed  was  ready;  then  she,  too,  wailed  the  wail  of 
her  sort,  lifting  high  a  voice  of  uncouth  animal 
woe. 

"She's  dead,  she's  dead!"  at  last  sobbed 
Jane.  "She'll  never  speak  to  any  of  us  again. 
Oh,  Amelia,  Amelia,  to  think  it  should  come  to 
this!" 

Addie,  with  one  furious  glance  at  her  aunt, 
144 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA    LAMKIN 

stopped  rubbing  her  mother's  hands.  She 
stood  back.  She  looked  very  stiff  and  straight. 
Her  face  was  still,  but  tears  rolled  over  her 
cheeks  as  if  they  had  been  marble.  Annie 
wept  with  gentle  grief.  Jane  continued  to 
lament,  as  did  Hannah.  The  baby  steadily  ate 
sugar.  Tommy  was  the  only  one  who  held 
steadfast.  He  never  whimpered,  and  he  fanned 
as  if  life  depended  upon  the  newspaper  gale. 

Then  there  was  a  quick  rattle  of  wheels,  and 
Jane  rushed  to  the  door  and  shrieked  out,  as 
the  doctor  was  fumbling  for  his  medicine- 
chest  : 

"You're  too  late,  doctor,  you're  too  late!" 

Poor  Josiah,  who  had  driven  back  with  the 
doctor  and  was  already  out  of  the  buggy,  turned 
ghastly  white. 

"Oh,  my  God,  doctor,  she's  gone!"  he  gasped. 

The  doctor,  who  was  young  and  optimistic, 
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Brace  up, 
man!"  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice.  Then  he  en 
tered  the  house  and  the  dining-room  where  poor 
Amelia  lay.  He  pushed  rather  rudely  past  Jane 
and  Hannah  and  Addie  and  Annie.  He  knelt 
down  beside  the  prostrate  woman,  looked  at 
her  keenly  ^  felt  her  wrist,  and  held  his  head  to 
her  breast.  Then  he  addressed  Tommy.  * '  How 
145 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

long  has  your  mother  been  unconscious?"  he 
asked. 

Tommy  glanced  up  at  the  clock.  * '  Most  half 
an  hour,"  he  replied.  His  mouth  and  eyes  and 
nose  twitched,  but  he  spoke  quite  firmly.  There 
was  the  making  of  a  man  in  Tommy. 

' '  Oh,  she's  dead !"  wailed  Jane.  ' '  Oh,  Amelia ! 
Oh,  my  sister,  my  sister!" 

Doctor  Emerson  rose  and  looked  at  Jane 
Strong  with  cool  hostility.  "She  is  not  dead 
unless  you  make  her  so  by  your  lack  of  self- 
control,"  said  he.  "You  must  all  be  as  quiet 
as  you  can." 

Jane  stopped  wailing  and  regarded  him  with 
awed  eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  feminine  thing  cowed 
by  the  superior  coolness  in  adversity  of  a  male. 
She  was  afraid  of  that  clear,  pink-and-white, 
young  masculine  face,  with  its  steady  outlook  of 
rather  cold  blue  eyes  and  its  firm  mouth.  All 
became  quiet  and  obeyed  Doctor  Emerson's 
orders.  Josiah,  Hannah,  and  the  doctor  carried 
Amelia  to  her  room,  and  laid  her,  still  uncon 
scious,  upon  her  bed.  Then,  after  a  while,  she 
awakened,  but  she  was  a  broken  creature.  They 
hardly  recognized  her  as  Amelia.  Amelia  with 
out  her  ready  hand  for  them  all,  her  ready  step 
for  their  comfort,  seemed  hardly  credible.  She 
146 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA    LAMKIN 

lay  sunken  among  her  pillows  in  a  curious, 
inert  fashion.  She  was  very  small  and  slight, 
but  she  gave  an  impression  of  great  weight,  so 
complete  was  her  abandonment  to  exhaustion, 
so  entirely  her  bed  sustained  her,  without  any 
effort  upon  her  part. 

Addie  cornered  the  doctor  in  the  front  hall 
on  his  way  out.  "What  do  you  think  is  the 
matter  with  mother?"  she  whispered.  The 
doctor  looked  at  Addie 's  pretty,  pale  face.  He 
was  unmarried,  and  had  had  dreams  about 
Addie  Lamkin.  He  had  dismissed  those  dreams 
upon  the  advent  of  Arthur  Henderson.  Still, 
the  girl  had  almost  the  interest  of  an  old  love 
for  him. 

"Your  mother  is  simply  worn  out,  Miss 
Lamkin,"  said  Doctor  Emerson,  curtly;  yet  his 
eyes,  regarding  that  pretty  face,  were  pitying. 

"Worn  out?"  repeated  Addie. 

"Yes.  To  put  it  plainly,  she  has  worked 
too  hard  for  everybody  else,  and  not  hard 
enough  for  herself." 

Soft  rose  suffused  Addie's  face  and  neck. 
She  looked  piteously  at  the  doctor,  with  round 
eyes  like  a  baby's,  pleading  not  to  be  hurt.  The 
doctor's  tone  softened  a  little. 

"Of  course  I  realize  how  almost  impossible 
147 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

it  is  to  prevent  self-sacrificing  women  like  your 
mother  from  offering  themselves  up,"  he  said. 

Tears  stood  in  Addie's  eyes.  "Mother  never 
complained,  and  she  seemed  to  want — "  she 
returned,  brokenly. 

"Yes,  she  seemed  to  want  to  do  everything 
and  not  let  anybody  else  do  anything,  and  everv 
body  indulged  her." 

"I  don't  think  any  of  us  realized,"  said 
Addie. 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  said  Doctor  Emer 
son,  and  his  voice,  while  slightly  sarcastic,  was 
still  almost  caressing. 

"Of  course  now  we  shall  see  that  mother  does 
not  overdo,"  said  Addie. 

"She  can't— now." 

Addie  turned  very  white .   ' '  You  don '  t  mean — ' ' 

"I  don't  know.  I  shall  do  everything  I  can, 
but  she  is  very  weak.  I  never  saw  a  case  of 
more  complete  exhaustion." 

After  Doctor  Emerson  had  driven  out  of  the 
yard,  Addie  and  Annie  talked  together,  Jane 
Strong  made  gruel,  and  Tommy  sat  beside  his 
mother.  Josiah  paced  up  and  down  the  front 
walk.  He  had  a  feeling  as  if  the  solid  ground 
was  cut  from  under  his  feet.  He  had  not  known 
for  so  many  years  what  it  was  to  live  without 
148 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

the  sense  of  Amelia's  sustaining  care  that  he 
felt  at  once  unreasoning  anger  with  her,  a 
monstrous  self-pity,  and  an  agony  of  anxious 
love.  The  one  clear  thing  in  his  mind  was  that 
Amelia  ever  since  their  marriage  had  put  in  his 
sleeve-buttons  and  shirt-studs.  Always  he  saw 
those  little,  nervous,  frail  hands  struggling  with 
the  stiff  linen  and  the  studs  and  buttons.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  of  all  her  wrongs,  that  was 
the  one  which  he  should  definitely  grasp.  He 
felt  that  she  was  worn  out,  maybe  come  to  her 
death,  through  putting  in  those  buttons  and 
studs.  Josiah  was  a  great,  lumbering  masculine 
creature,  full  of  helpless  tenderness.  He  paced 
up  and  down  the  walk.  He  looked  at  his  thick 
fingers,  and  he  saw  always  those  little,  slender, 
nervous  ones  struggling  with  his  linen  and 
buttons,  and  he  knew  what  remorse  was. 
Finally  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  he  en 
tered  the  house  and  the  kitchen  where  Jane 
was  making  the  gruel. 

"Doctor  Emerson  says  she  is  all  worn  out," 
he  said,  thickly. 

Jane  looked  at  him  viciously.     "Of  course 
she  is  worn  out." 

"Jane,  do  you  think  putting  in  my  sleeve- 
buttons  and  studs  hurt  her?" 
149 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Jane  stared  at  him.  "Everything  has  hurt 
her  together,  I  suppose,"  she  replied,  grimly. 

Josiah  went  into  the  dining-room,  where 
Addie  and  Annie  stood  talking  together  in  low 
voices,  and  sobbing  softly  between  the  words. 
The  baby  was  asleep  in  his  chair,  his  curly  head 
hanging  sidewise.  "Your  mother  seems  to  be 
all  worn  out,"  Josiah  said  to  his  daughters. 

"Yes,  she  is,  I  am  afraid,"  Annie  said,  tear 
fully.  "If  /  had  only  been  stronger." 

"If  mother  had  only  known  she  wasn't 
strong,"  Addie  said,  fiercely,  and  Annie  did 
not  resent  it.  "Here  I've  been  saying  mother 
must  be  let  alone  to  do  things  because  it  worried 
her  not  to,"  said  Addie.  "Great  fool,  great 
hypocrite!"  She  gave  a  sob  of  fury  at  herself. 

"I  have  been  thinking  how  she  has  always 
put  in  my  sleeve-buttons  and  shirt-studs," 
said  Josiah. 

Neither  Annie  nor  Addie  seemed  to  hear 
what  he  said. 

' '  If  only  I  had  been  stronger, "  repeated  Annie. 

Addie  turned  on  her.  "You  have  always 
been  enough  sight  stronger  than  mother,  Annie 
Sears,"  said  she.  "You  fairly  enjoy  thinking 
you  are  delicate.  You  think  it  is  a  feather  in 
your  cap;  you  know  you  do!" 
150 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

Annie  was  so  astonished  she  fairly  gaped  at 
her  sister.  She  could  not  speak.  Addie  made 
a  dart  toward  Johnny  and  caught  him  up  in  her 
arms.  "Here  we  are  letting  mother's  baby 
break  his  neck,"  said  she,  furiously,  "standing 
here  like  great  gumps.  Next  thing  he  would 
have  tumbled  out  of  his  chair."  Johnny  began 
to  wail,  and  Addie  kissed  him,  then  shook  him. 
"Johnny,  hush  up  for  mercy's  sake,"  said  she. 
"Grandma's  very  sick.  Here,  don't  cry,  and 
auntie  will  give  you  a  lump  of  sugar."  With 
that  Addie  poked  a  lump  of  sugar  into  the  little, 
soft,  red  mouth,  and  Johnny  was  appeased  and 
began  sucking  it. 

"She's  always  put  in  my  sleeve-buttons  and 
studs,"  said  Josiah,  in  his  miserable  monotone. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  front  walk,  and  began 
pacing  up  and  down. 

Addie  turned  to  Annie.  "Annie  Sears," 
said  she,  "do  you  know  mother  is  up  there  all 
alone  with  Tommy?  Why  don't  you  go  up 
there?" 

"Let  me  take  Johnny,  and  you  go,  Addie," 
Annie  said,  faintly. 

Addie  thrust  Johnny  upon  Annie,  and  turned 
and  went  up-stairs.  Tommy  looked  up  as  she 
entered  the  room  and  gave  an  inaudible 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"hush!"  "Mother  is  asleep,"  he  motioned 
with  his  lips.  Amelia,  indeed,  lay  as  if  asleep, 
with  her  eyes  partly  open,  and  a  ghastly  line  of 
white  eyeball  showing.  Addie  sat  beside  the 
bed  and  looked  at  her  mother.  Tommy  broke 
down,  and  curved  his  arm  in  its  rough  sleeve 
around  his  freckled  face  and  wept  bitterly. 
Addie  did  not  weep.  Gradually  the  expression 
of  those  who  renunciate  stole  over  her  face. 
She  was  making  up  her  mind  to  relinquish  all 
thoughts  of  marriage,  to  live  at  home  single, 
and  devote  her  life  to  her  mother.  Addie 's 
face,  which  had  been  pretty  with  a  rather  hard 
prettiness,  grew  beautiful.  She  looked  as  her 
mother  had  done  as  a  girl.  The  possibilities 
of  entire  self-renunciation  lit  it  with  spiritual 
glory.  She  realized  that  she  was  very  un 
happy;  she  thought  of  Arthur  Henderson,  but 
she  said  to  herself  that  he  was  a  man  and 
young,  and  men  could  forget.  She  knew  quite 
well  that  his  character  was  not  one  capable  of 
going  through  life  without  snatching  at  one 
sweet  if  he  could  not  obtain  another.  She  felt 
glad  that  it  was  so.  She  had  never  been  so  mis 
erable  and  so  blissful  in  her  whole  life  as  she 
was,  sitting  beside  her  mother's  bed;  for  she, 
for  the  first  time,  saw  beyond  her  own  self, 
152 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

and  realized  the  unspeakable  glory  there.  She 
reached  out  a  hand  and  patted  Tommy's  heav 
ing  shoulder. 

"We'll  all  take  care  of  her,  and  she'll  get  well; 
don't  cry,  dear,"  she  whispered,  very  softly. 

But  Tommy  gave  his  shoulder  an  impatient 
shrug  and  wept  on.  He  was  remembering  how 
he  had  worn  so  many  holes  in  his  mittens  and 
his  mother  had  mended  them,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  mending  those  mittens  was  the  one 
thing  which  had  tired  her  out.  He  made  up 
his  mind,  whether  she  lived  or  died,  that  he 
would  never  get  holes  in  his  mittens  again  for 
anybody  to  mend.  He  would  start  to  school 
with  mittens  on  his  hands,  and  when  once  out 
of  sight  of  home,  into  his  pockets  they  would 
go,  and  he  would  use  his  bare  hands  if  they  did 
get  frost-bitten. 

Down-stairs  Annie  Sears  sat  beside  little 
Johnny  and  told  him  a  story.  She  never  knew 
what  the  story  was  about.  Johnny  had  eaten 
all  the  sugar  in  the  bowl,  and  he  nestled  his  little 
curly  head  against  Annie's  shoulder  while  she 
talked  in  her  unhappy  voice.  After  a  while 
Johnny's  eyes  closed,  and  Annie  lifted  him  and 
carried  him  up-stairs  and  laid  him  on  her  own 
bed.  He  was  a  heavy  child,  and  she  bent  pain- 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

fully  beneath  his  weight,  and  reflected,  the  while 
she  did  so,  how  many  times  she  had  seen  her 
mother  toil  up-stairs  with  him — her  little  moth 
er,  whose  shoulders  were  narrower  than  her 
own. 

Jane  finished  the  bowl  of  gruel,  while  Hannah 
stood  looking  on.  Jane  turned  upon  the  girl 
with  sudden  fury. 

"For  the  land's  sake,  get  to  work,  can't  you  ?" 
she  said.  "What  are  you  standing  there  for? 
Clear  off  the  table,  and  wash  the  dishes,  and 
sweep  up  the  kitchen!" 

Hannah  did  not  resent  the  angry  voice.  She 
began  to  weep  without  covering  her  face,  bawl 
ing  aloud  like  a  baby.  "Oh,  Lord!  oh,  Lord!" 
she  wailed.  "Here's  that  poor  blessed  soul  all 
wore  out  doing  my  work  while  I've  been  stand 
ing  watching  her!" 

"Well,  you  haven't  got  her  to  watch  now," 
said  Jane.  "Get  to  work!"  Hannah  paddled 
into  the  dining-room,  and  the  clatter  of  dishes 
accompanied  her  loud  sobs.  Jane  carried  the 
bowl  of  gruel  to  her  sister,  but  poor  Amelia  was 
too  spent  to  take  more  than  a  spoonful  or  two, 
for  all  her  gentle  willingness.  "There's  no 
use,"  said  Jane,  grimly.  "She's  got  to  have 
something  to  put  some  life  in  her.  There's 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

that  bottle  of  port  wine  down  cellar  that  the 
doctor  ordered  for  Annie,  and  she  didn't  like. 
I'm  going  to  put  some  in  this  gruel." 

"Won't  it  be  an  awful  mess?"  whispered 
Addie. 

"Mess  or  not,  she's  got  to  take  it.  She's  got 
to  have  something  to  put  some  life  in  her." 

The  cellar  in  the  Lamkin  house  was  approach 
ed  by  a  trap-door  in  a  pantry  opening  out  of 
the  parlor.  It  was  a  strange  arrangement,  but 
there  were  many  strange  arrangements  in  the 
Lamkin  house,  which  was  very  old,  had  suf 
fered  many  alterations,  and  had  been  built  orig 
inally  by  an  eccentric  man.  Nobody  saw  Jane 
Strong  enter  the  parlor  and  the  pantry,  raise 
the  trap -door,  and  descend  the  main  stairs. 
Jane  knew  just  where  the  port  wine  was  kept. 
It  was  standing  by  itself,  giving  out  a  dusky 
red  glow  like  a  carbuncle,  in  the  southwest 
corner  of  the  very  neat  cellar.  Jane  had  her 
hand  on  the  bottle  when  she  heard  a  thud, 
and  realized  that  the  trap-door  had  fallen.  She 
did  not  feel  at  all  dismayed,  but  when  she 
had  climbed  the  stairs  with  her  wine-bottle  she 
found  herself  in  difficulty.  The  trap-door  was 
very  heavy,  and  there  was  nothing  whatever 
to  take  hold  of  on  the  under  side.  Jane  raised 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

herself  as  near  the  top  of  the  stairs  as  she  could 
and  pushed  in  vain  with  her  hands,  then  she 
butted  the  door  with  her  little  head  banded 
with  sleek  black  hair.  Jane's  neck  was  very 
slender,  and  her  head  was  very  small.  She 
could  not  make  the  slightest  impression  upon 
the  door.  She  descended  the  stairs  and  found 
a  clean,  empty  stone  jar  in  the  northwest  corner 
of  the  cellar.  Jane  took  the  lid  of  the  jar,  and 
with  the  wine-bottle  still  under  her  arm,  she 
climbed  the  stairs  again.  Then  she  pounded 
upon  the  door  viciously  with  the  lid  of  the  jar, 
until  it  suddenly  broke  in  halves,  and  she,  taken 
by  surprise,  fell  down  the  stairs,  with  the  wine- 
bottle,  which  broke.  Jane  Strong  sat  on  the 
cellar  floor  and  felt  faint.  Then  came  the 
consciousness  of  extreme  pain  in  her  foot  and 
ankle.  "I  have  spilled  all  that  wine  over  my 
dress,  I  am  soaked  to  my  skin  with  wine,  and 
I've  sprained  my  ankle,  maybe  I've  broken  it; 
and  there's  Amelia  up-stairs  the  way  she  is," 
said  Jane  Strong  aloud,  in  a  curiously  cool,  re 
flective  voice.  She  had  a  judicial  turn  of  mind, 
and  she  pulled  herself  together  and  considered 
the  whole  situation.  "I've  got  to  make  some 
body  hear  somehow,"  she  said,  also  aloud. 
Jane  had  a  very  thin,  reedy  voice  which  did  not 

156 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA    LAMKIN 

carry  far.  She  raised  it  as  loud  as  she  possibly 
could,  and  she  called  by  name,  each  in  turn, 
the  members  of  the  family.  She  thought  that 
possibly  Tommy  had  the  most  acute  hearing, 
and  she  called,  "Tommy!  Tommy!"  oftener 
than  any  other  name.  Nobody  came.  After  a 
while  she  got  incensed.  "Might  as  well  give  it 
up,"  said  she.  She  wore  cloth  shoes  with  elastic 
at  the  sides,  and  suceeded  in  pulling  the  one 
on  the  injured  foot  off,  although  it  caused  her 
agony.  She  eyed  the  swollen  foot  and  ankle 
sternly.  She  felt  of  the  ankle,  and  became  al 
most  sure  that  a  bone  was  broken.  She  sat 
still,  thinking.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
never  really  thought  in  all  her  life  before.  Jane 
Strong  had  kept  all  the  commandments  from 
her  youth  up.  She  had  always  been  considered 
a  most  exemplary  woman  by  other  people,  and 
she  had  acquiesced  in  their  opinion.  Now 
suddenly  she  differed  with  other  people  and 
with  her  own  previous  estimation  of  herself. 
She  had  blamed  her  sister  Amelia  Lamkin  for 
her  sweet,  subtle  selfishness,  which  possibly 
loved  the  happiness  of  other  people  rather  than 
their  own  spiritual  gain;  she  had  blamed  all  the 
Lamkin  family  for  allowing  a  martyr  to  live 
among  them,  with  no  effort  to  save  her  from 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

the  flame  of  her  own  self -sacrifice.  Now  sud 
denly  she  blamed  herself.  She  pictured  to  her 
self  her  easy,  unhampered  life  in  her  nice  little 
apartment,  and  was  convicted  of  enormous 
selfishness  in  her  own  righteous  person.  * '  Lord ! ' ' 
she  said,  "what  on  earth  have  I  been  thinking 
about  ?  I  knew  Amelia  was  overworked.  What 
was  to  hinder  my  coming  here  at  least  half  the 
year  and  taking  some  of  the  burden  off  her? 
I  knew  Addie  was  young,  and  Annie  none  too 
strong,  and  Josiah  fussy,  like  all  men.  Why 
didn't  I  come  ?  And  now  here  she  is  flat  on  her 
back,  and  maybe  she'll  never  get  up ;  and  here  I 
am  with  a  broken  ankle,  and  can't  do  a  thing. 
You've  made  a  nice  mess  of  it,  Jane  Strong! 
Instead  of  snooping  around  to  find  the  sins  of 
other  folks,  you'd  better  have  looked  at  home. 
Good  land!"  Tears  rolled  down  Jane's  cheeks. 
Then  she  wiped  them  away  with  a  hand  wet 
with  port  wine,  and  she  raised  her  voice  and 
called  again.  She  sat  there  vainly  calling  until 
the  light  began  to  wane ;  then  it  was  Josiah  who 
heard.  Josiah,  who  had  been  in  the  house, 
gazing  at  his  prostrate  wife,  and  going  to 
his  daughters  for  comfort,  and  then  return 
ed  to  his  miserable  promenade  qj^ithe  front 
walk,  heard  her  through  the  cellar  window. 
158 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA    LAMKIN 

He  hurried  into  the  house  and  met  Ad- 
die. 

"Somebody's  calling  me,  and  it  sounds  like 
it  came  from  the  cellar,"  he  stammered.  His 
nerves  were  so  unstrung  that  he  felt  a  shiver 
of  superstition 

Addie  also  felt  an  answering  thrill  of  horror. 
"What  do  you  think  it  is,  father?"  she  whis 
pered,  fearfully. 

"Don't  know.  Sounds  like  a  cat  calling 
'Josiah!'  as  near  as  anything  else." 

The  two  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

"Where  is  Aunt  Jane?"  asked  Addie. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Annie  and  I  have  been  looking  for  her,  and 
she  doesn't  seem  to  be  in  the  house." 

"If  she  were  here  she  would  go  down  cellar 
and  see  what  it  was,"  said  Josiah,  with  open 
weakness. 

Addie  straightened  herself.  "Nonsense, 
father!  We  will  go  together,"  said  she. 

When  they  had  opened  the  trap-door  in  the 
parlor  pantry,  and  peered  down  into  the  gloom, 
and  heard  the  faint  voice  from  below,  Addie 
gave  a  cry  and  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

"Goodness,  Aunt  Jane!"  said  she,  "is  that 
you?" 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"Yes,  it's  me."  groaned  Jane.  Then  she 
began  to  weep.  "Oh,  Lord,  it's  a  judgment  on 
me!"  said  she. 

"Are  you  hurt?  How  did  you  come  down 
here?" 

"Fell  down.  Oh,  Lord,  it's  a  judgment  on 
me!" 

"What  did  you  come  here  for?  How  came 
the  trap-door  shut?" 

"It  fell  down.  I  came  for  that  bottle  of  port 
wine  for  your  poor  mother.  It  broke  when  I 
fell.  I  was  trying  to  knock  on  the  trap-door 
with  the  lid  of  that  jar,  and  I  fell.  I'm  all  wine 
from  head  to  foot." 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"Guess  my  ankle  is  broken.  It  pains  me 
something  dreadful,  but  I  don't  care.  It's  a 
judgment  on  me!  I've  been  terrible  selfish 
about  your  mother.  It's  a  judgment  on  me!" 

"Seems  to  me  there's  judgments  on  all  of 
us,"  said  Addie,  rather  sharply,  although  there 
was  pity  in  her  voice  as  she  stooped  over  her 
aunt,  but  she  was  wondering  what  could  be 
done,  with  her  mother  so  ill  and  her  aunt  crippled. 

Josiah  stood  over  his  sister-in-law,  a  helpless 
bulk  of  a  man,  drooping  in  every  muscle  before 
this  new  calamity. 

1 60 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA    LAMKIN 

"Can't  you  get  up,  Jane?"  he  inquired, 
quaveringly. 

"For  the  land's  sake,  Josiah  Lamkin,  do  you 
suppose  I'd  sit  here  catching  my  death  of  cold 
on  this  cellar  floor  if  I  could  get  up  ?"  responded 
Jane. 

"Father,  you  had  better  run  as  fast  as  you 
can  and  get  Doctor  Emerson.  He  said  he 
would  come  again  to  see  mother,  but  he  may 
not  until  after  his  office  hour,"  said  Addie. 
"I'll  get  some  pillows  and  a  shawl,  and  Hannah 
can  make  some  hot  tea.  Then  I  think  you  and 
Doctor  Emerson  can  get  her  up-stairs.  Han 
nah  and  I  will  have  everything  ready  in  her 


room." 


Josiah,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  raced 
for  the  doctor.  Annie  came  and  sat  on  the 
cellar  stairs,  while  poor  Jane  drank  her  tea, 
and  wept  softly  at  this  disaster. 

Jane  gulped  down  the  tea  in  a  sort  of  fury. 
"I  don't  deserve  this  tea,"  said  she,  "and  I 
wouldn't  touch  it,  but  I've  got  to  make  trouble 
enough  as  it  is  without  getting  pneumonia.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  is  as  dangerous  to  set 
soaked  through  with  wine  as  it  is  with  wrater, 
but  I'm  wet  to  the  skin,  anyhow,  and  all  of  a 
shake.  How  is  she?" 

161 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"She  just  lies  there,  and  she  looks  like  death," 
moaned  Annie. 

"We've  all  been  killing  her,  and  now  she's 
killed,  I  guess,"  said  Jane. 

"We  didn't  realize,"  said  Annie.  "If  only  I 
had  been  stronger!" 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  don't  talk  any  more 
about  being  strong,"  said  Jane.  "You'd  better 
hustle  round  and  get  strong.  You've  been  as 
strong  as  your  mother  right  along,  and  she  has 
never  said  a  word." 

"I  know  it,"  Annie  said.  She  bent  over, 
and  her  whole  slender  body  shook  with  sobs. 

"For  the  land's  sake,"  said  Jane,  "stop  crying! 
You  don't  want  to  make  yourself  sick  and  have 
another  to  take  care  of.  There's  enough  as  it 
is.  If  Harry  comes  home  and  finds  you've 
been  crying,  there'll  be  an  awful  to-do.  He  acts 
like  a  pox  fool  about  you,  and  always  did. 
I  believe  he's  put  it  into  your  head  about  not 
being  strong,  anyhow.  He's  seen  your  mother 
getting  up  and  getting  his  early  breakfast  for 
him,  and  he  hasn't  thought  it  was  any 
thing." 

"I'm  going  to  get  Harry's  breakfast  now." 

"You'd  better.  If  a  woman  has  married  a 
man  who  has  to  gulp  his  breakfast  and  race  for 

162 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA    LAMKIN 

an  early  train,  it's  her  place  to  get  it  for  him, 
and  not  her  poor  old  mother's." 

1 ' I  am  going  to,"  said  Annie.  Then  she  wept 
again. 

Meanwhile,  Amelia  Lamkin  was  lying  in  her 
peaceful  bed  up-stairs  in  a  very  trance  of 
happiness.  She  was  quite  conscious.  She  had 
not  a  pain.  She  realized  an  enormous  weak 
ness  and  sheer  inability  to  move,  but  along  with 
it  came  the  blessed  sense  of  release  from  hard 
duties.  Almost  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
Amelia  Lamkin's  conscience  did  not  sting  her 
because  she  was  not  up  and  doing  for  others. 
She  knew  that  it  was  impossible.  She  felt  like 
one  who  has  received  absolution.  The  weight 
of  her  life  had  slipped  from  her  shoulders.  She 
regarded  Tommy's  pale,  disturbed  face,  but 
even  that  did  not  trouble  her,  so  sunken  was 
she  in  the  peace  of  weakness  and  sweet  ir 
responsibility.  She  made  one  effort  to  speak 
to  him,  to  comfort  him;  then  she  gave  it  up, 
and  lay  smiling  the  ghost  of  a  smile.  It  did  not 
seem  to  her  that  he  could  be  really  distressed 
when  she  was  not  suffering  and  was  relieved 
of  the  weight  of  existence  under  which  she  had 
staggered  so  long.  The  faces  of  the  other 
members  of  her  family  came  before  her  mental 
163 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

vision,  and  she  beheld  them  with  immense  love 
and  no  anxiety.  The  sense  of  being  herself  so 
entirely  in  the  arms  of  Providence,  of  being 
undriven  by  any  lash  of  duty,  filled  her  with 
peace  concerning  them.  She  was  beatifically 
happy,  while  the  others  were  bemoaning  her 
condition,  and  while  Jane  was  being  attended 
to  in  another  room  for  her  badly  sprained 
ankle,  which  would  disable  her  for  weeks, 
perhaps  for  life.  They  worried  lest  Amelia 
should  hear  some  noise  which  would  awaken 
her  suspicion,  lest  she  should  ask  for  her  sister, 
and  be  alarmed  at  her  absence,  but  they  had  no 
occasion  for  worry.  Amelia,  for  the  time  being, 
was  past  alarm.  She  missed  nobody.  She 
wanted  nothing  except  to  lie  there  in  her  clean 
white  bed  and  feel  that  she  need  not  move. 
The  days  went  on,  and  her  condition  did  not 
change. 

She  lay  still  day  after  day,  opening  her  mouth 
obediently  for  the  spoonfuls  of  sustenance 
which  were  given  her,  half  dozing,  half  waking, 
and  wholly  happy.  All  her  life  she  had  done 
what  she  could,  and  all  her  life  she  had  been 
anxious  lest  she  should  not  do  what  she  could. 
Now  that  she  knew  that  she  could  do  no  more 
there  came  upon  her  a  perfect  peace.  She 
164 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

did  not  know  that  Jane  was  confined  to  her  bed 
with  her  injured  foot.  She  did  not  know  that 
Addie  had  turned  a  cold  shoulder  to  Arthur 
Henderson,  and  that  he  was  already  engaged  to 
Eliza  Loomis.  She  did  not  know  of  the 
harrowing  anxiety  concerning  her.  She  knew 
naught  but  her  conviction  that  nothing  was 
required  of  her  except  to  lie  still,  that  other 
people  required  nothing  except  that,  that  God 
required  nothing  except  that.  Addie  always 
wore  a  cheerful  face  when  with  her  mother. 
Indeed,  the  readiness  with  which  Arthur  Hen 
derson  had  given  her  up  had  caused  her  pride 
to  act  as  a  tonic,  and  her  eyes  had  been  opened. 
She  knew  that  she  had  never  cared  for  a  man 
who  could  relinquish  her  without  more  effort, 
and  whose  loss  had  caused  her  no  more  pain. 
At  first  she  thought  that  her  love  and  anxiety 
for  her  mother  had  made  her  callous,  but  after 
a  little  she  knew.  She  even  laughed  at  herself 
because  she  had  once  thought  it  possible  for  her 
to  marry  Arthur  Henderson.  She  could  not 
yet  laugh  at  the  prospect  of  the  life  of  self- 
immolation  which  she  ordered  for  herself  since 
the  day  her  mother  had  been  taken  ill,  but  she 
was  schooling  herself  to  contemplate  it  cheer 
fully,  although  the  doctor,  with  his  daily  visits 
165 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

to  her  mother,  was  now  making  it  hard.  Addie 
began  to  realize  that  this  man,  had  she  allowed 
herself  to  think  of  him,  might  have  been  more 
difficult  to  relinquish  than  the  other.  After  a 
while  she  saw  him  as  little  as  possible,  and 
received  his  directions  through  Annie.  Addie 
and  Annie  had  their  days  full.  They  were  glad 
when  Tommy's  spring  vacation  came.  Tommy 
was  of  much  assistance,  and  he  developed  a 
curious  aptitude  for  making  Hannah  work. 
"Now,  Hannah,  if  you  are  any  girl  at  all,  if  you 
ever  mean  to  get  married  yourself  and  not  have 
your  fellow  light  out  the  first  week,  it's  time  for 
you  to  brace  up  and  hustle,"  said  Tommy;  and 
the  next  morning  Hannah  achieved  surprising 
biscuits  and  well-cooked  eggs.  Addie  ate  her 
eggs  cooked  any  way  now,  and  so  did  Annie, 
and  Josiah  Lamkin  never  said  a  word  if  his 
steak  were  not  quite  as  rare  as  usual,  and 
Johnny  ate  his  rice  half -cooked,  and  survived. 
Amelia's  window  -  shades  were  up  all  day, 
for  the  doctor  said  she  should  have  all  the  light 
and  sun  possible;  and  as  spring  advanced  she 
could  see,  with  those  patient  eyes  which  ap 
parently  saw  nothing,  the  blue  sky  crossed  with 
tree  branches  deepening  in  color  before  they 
burst  into  leaf  and  flower.  Amelia  saw  not  only 
166 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

those  branches,  but  beyond  them,  as  though 
they  were  transparent,  other  branches,  but 
those  other  branches  grew  on  the  trees  of  God, 
and  were  full  of  wonderful  blooms ;  and  beyond 
the  trees  she  saw  the  far-away  slope  of  moun 
tains,  and  through  them  in  turn  the  curves  of 
beauty  of  the  Delectable  Hills.  When  Amelia 
closed  her  eyes,  the  picture  of  those  trees  be 
yond  trees,  those  mountains  beyond  mountains, 
was  still  with  her,  and  she  saw  also  heavenly 
landscapes,  rich  green  meadows,  and  pearly 
floods,  and  gardens  of  lilies,  and  her  vision, 
which  had  been  content  for  years  with  only  the 
dear  simple  beauties  of  her  little  village,  was 
fed  to  her  soul's  delight  and  surfeit.  But  she 
was  too  weak  to  speak  more  than  a  word  at  a 
time,  and  she  scarcely  seemed  to  know  one  of 
her  dear  ones.  Poor  Amelia  Lamkin  was  so 
tired  out  in  their  service  that  she  had  gone 
almost  out  of  their  reach  for  her  rest. 

At  last  came  a  warm  day  during  the  first 
of  May,  when  people  said  about  the  village  that 
Mrs.  Amelia  Lamkin  was  very  low  indeed.  The 
air  was  very  soft  and  full  of  sweet  languor, 
and  those  partly  opened  eyes  of  Amelia's  saw 
blossoms  through  blossoms  on  the  tree  branches. 
In  the  afternoon  Doctor  Emerson  came,  and 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Addie  did  not  shun  him.  Her  mind  was  too 
full  of  her  mother  for  a  thought  of  any  human 
soul  beside.  She  and  the  young  man  stood  in 
Amelia's  room  over  the  prostrate  little  figure, 
and  the  doctor  took  up  the  slender  hand  and 
felt  for  the  pulse  in  the  blue-veined  wrist. 
Then  he  went  over  by  the  window,  and  stood 
there  with  Addie,  and  Amelia's  eyes,  which 
had  been  closed,  opened  slowly,  and  she  saw 
the  blooming  boughs  of  the  trees  of  heaven 
through  them  also.  Addie  was  weeping  softly, 
but  her  mother  did  not  know  it,  at  first,  in  her 
rapt  contemplation.  She  did  not  see  Doctor 
Emerson  put  an  arm  around  the  girl's  waist, 
she  did  not  hear  what  he  said  to  her,  but  sud 
denly  she  did  hear  what  the  girl  said.  She 
heard  it  more  clearly  than  anything  since  she 
had  been  taken  ill.  "I  can't  think  of  such 
things  with  mother  lying  there  the  way  she  is," 
Addie  said,  in  a  whisper.  "I  wonder  at  you." 
"She  can't  hear  a  word;  she  does  not  know," 
said  the  young  man;  and  Amelia,  listening,  was 
surprised  to  learn  how  little  a  physician  really 
knows  himself,  when  she  was  hearing  and  un 
derstanding  every  word,  and  presently  seeing. 
"I  would  not  speak  now,"  Doctor  Emerson 
continued.  ' '  I  know  it  must  seem  untimely  to 
1 68 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

you,  but  you  have  been  through  so  much  all 
these  weeks,  and  it  is  possible  that  more  still 
is  before  you  soon,  and  I  feel  that  if  you  can 
consent  to  lean  upon  me  as  one  who  loves  you 
more  than  anybody  else  in  the  world,  I  may 
take  it  all  easier.  You  know  I  love  you, 
dear." 

"You  can't  love  me.     I  have  been  an  un 
worthy  daughter,"  Addie  sobbed. 

' '  An  unworthy  daughter  ?    I  have  never  seen 
such  devotion." 

"The  devotion  came  too  late,"  Addie  re-v 
plied,  bitterly.  "If  mother  had  had  a  little 
more  devotion  years  ago,  she  would  be  up  and 
about  now.  There  is  no  use  talking,  Doctor 
Emerson;  you  don't  know  me  as  I  know  my 
self  or  you  wouldn't  once  think  of  me ;  but,  any 
way,  it  is  out  of  the  question." 

"Why?" 

"Because,"  said  Addie,  firmly,  "I  have  re 
solved  never  to  marry,  never  to  allow  any  other 
love  or  interest  to  come  between  me  and  my  own 
family.  If  mother — "  Addie  could  not  finish 
the  sentence.  She  went  on,  with  a  word  omit 
ted:  "I  must  make  all  the  restitution  to  her 
in  my  power  by  devoting  my  whole  life  to  her 
dear  ones,  to  Tommy  and  the  baby  and  father. 
"  169 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

Annie  is  delicate,  although  now  she  tries  to 
think  she  isn't,  and  is  doing  so  much,  and  Aunt 
Jane  will  never  be  able  to  walk  as  well  as  before 
she  sprained  her  ankle  falling  down  those  cellar 
stairs.  You  know  that." 

Amelia  heard.  It  was  the  first  she  had  known 
of  Jane's  accident. 

"She  is  getting  on  very  well,"  Doctor  Emer 
son  said,  rather  evasively. 

"Yes,  but  she  is  lame.  That  is  the  reason 
she  won't  come  in  here,  though  I  have  told  her 
poor  mother  wouldn't  notice.  Aunt  Jane  has 
said  that  if  it  were  not  for  her  lameness  she 
would  come  here  and  keep  house,  but  she  is  a 
woman  older  than  mother,  and  she  is  lame. 
There  is  nobody  except  myself  to  keep  up  the 
home  here,  and  any  other  arrangement  is  out 
of  the  question." 

"We  could  live  here,  dear,"  said  the  young 
man,  and  his  voice  sounded  young  and  pleasing 
and  pitiful.  Amelia  herself  loved  him  as  he 
spoke.  But  Addie  turned  upon  him  with  a  sort 
of  fierceness. 

"Don't   talk   to   me   any   more,"    she   said. 

"Haven't  you  eyes?     Don't  you  see  I  can't 

bear  it  ?     We  could  live  here,  but  you  —  and 

maybe  others — would  come  between  me  and  my 

170 


SELFISHNESS   OF  AMELIA   LAMKIN 

sacred  trust.  It  can't  be,  Edward.  If  mother 
had  lived — "  (she  spoke  of  her  mother  as  already 
dead) .  * '  Of  course  with  Aunt  Jane — I  think  she 
will  live  here  now,  anyway,  and  she  can  do  a 
good  deal — and  with  Annie,  they  could  have 
got  along,  and  I  don't  say  I  would  not  have. 
Of  course  it  must  cost  me  something  to  give  up 
the  sort  of  life  a  girl  naturally  expects.  Don't 
talk  to  me  any  more." 

Then  Amelia  sat  up  in  bed.  Her  eyes  were 
opened  wide ;  they  had  seen  her  last  of  heavenly 
visions  until  the  time  when  they  should  close 
forever.  In  a  flash  she  saw  how  selfish  it  was 
for  her,  this  patient,  loving  woman,  who  had 
thought  of  others  all  her  life,  to  be  happy  in 
giving  up  her  life.  She  realized,  too,  what  she 
had  never  felt  when  in  the  midst  of  them,  the 
torture  and  the  fires  of  martyrdom  in  which  her 
life  had  been  spent.  Now  that  the  unselfishness 
of  others  had  quenched  those  fires,  she  knew 
what  had  been,  and  saw  how  fair  the  world 
might  yet  be  for  her.  She  reached  back  her 
loving,  longing,  willing  hands  to  her  loved 
ones  of  earth  and  her  earthly  home.  Amelia 
spoke  in  quite  a  clear,  strong  voice.  Addie 
turned  with  a  great  start,  and  screamed, 
"Mother!"  and  Doctor  Emerson  was  by  her 
171 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

side  in  an  instant.  Amelia  looked  at  them 
and  smiled  the  smile  of  a  happy,  awakening 
infant. 

"I  am  better,"  said  she;  "I  am  going  to  get 
well  now.     I  have  lain  here  long  enough." 


THE  TRAVELLING   SISTER 


THE  TRAVELLING  SISTER 


Allerton  sisters  lived  in  a  grand  but 
1  very  lonely  old  mansion  on  the  side  of 
Allerton  Mountain.  Allerton  ville,  a  white- 
steepled  little  village,  lay  in  the  valley  below. 
Everything  pertained  to  the  Allertons  as  if  they 
had  belonged  to  a  feudal  family,  and  as  if  their 
old  mansion-house  had  been  a  castle.  Indeed, 
the  name  of  Allerton  had  been  a  great  one  in 
all  the  countryside.  They  had  been  "college- 
learned,"  as  the  village  people  expressed  it, 
and  they  had  had  great  possessions.  Now, 
however,  the  possessions  had  dwindled  sadly. 
The  males  of  the  family  were  all  gone;  women 
had  preponderated  during  the  last  two  genera 
tions,  and  women  like  those  of  the  Allerton 
stock  are  not  financiers.  For  that  matter  the 
males  had  not  distinguished  themselves  in 
increasing  their  assets;  neither  had  they  been 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

good  economists.  Most  of  their  riches  had  come 
through  inheritance.  The  family  had  been 
wealthy  collaterally,  as  well  as  in  the  direct  line. 
Streams  of  gold  and  silver  had  poured  in  from 
all  sides  as  one  Allerton  after  another  had  passed 
away  and  left  earthly  riches  behind.  But  now 
the  springs  of  wealth  had  all  run  dry.  There 
was  no  more  coming,  and  that  in  hand  was 
slowly  but  steadily  diminishing. 

The  Allerton  ladies  pinned  their  faith  upon 
their  lawyer,  John  H.  Fields.  He  and  his 
father  before  him  had  had  charge  of  the  Aller 
ton  fortunes.  The  Allertons  esteemed  him  as 
most  reliable,  and  in  a  sense  he  was.  Nobody 
could  question  his  honesty ;  but  how  much  could 
a  little  average-brained  man  who  had  been  born 
in  Allertonville  and  lived  there  to  old  age  know 
of  the  maelstrom  of  Wall  Street  and  the  strange 
catastrophes,  seemingly  far  removed  from  all 
possible  connection  with  three  elderly  ladies 
and  their  fortune,  but  which  nevertheless  had 
a  dire  influence  upon  them  ?  To  his  dying  day 
John  H.  Fields  would  never  understand  why 
when  a  certain  speculative  stock  declined,  in 
which  he  had  not  invested  and  of  which  he  had 
scarcely  heard,  an  investment  of  bonds  which 
he  had  always  considered  most  conservative 
176 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

passed  dividends.     Mr.  Fields  dreaded  telling 
the  Allerton  ladies. 

However,  on  the  day  following  the  notice  in 
the  New  York  paper  he  drove  slowly  up  Allerton 
Mountain.  His  tall  gray  horse  took  his  own 
gait,  nodding  at  every  step.  John  held  the 
lines  loosely  and  leaned  back  in  his  buggy. 
He  was  unmarried,  and  there  was  always  a  cer- 
tian  male  coquettishness  about  him  when  he 
called  upon  the  Allerton  sisters,  although  he 
had  no  dreams  whatever  concerning  them. 
John  H.  Fields  had  never  thought  seriously  of 
marrying  anybody.  He  was  born  to  his  own 
rut,  with  a  scared,  rabbit-like  imagination  for 
all  outside.  Still,  he  was  at  times  involuntarily 
coquettish.  This  afternoon  he  wore  a  nice  little 
gray  alpaca  coat  which  exactly  matched  his 
gray  trousers.  His  linen  shone.  He  wore  the 
neatest  of  little  black  satin  ties,  glossy  little 
shoes,  a  gleaming  white  hat,  and,  like  the  pre 
cious  high  light  of  it  all,  a  perfect  white  rosebud 
was  tucked  in  his  buttonhole.  His  narrow, 
clean-cut  face  was  clean  shaven,  and  the  hair 
at  the  sides  of  his  head  was  like  a  shade  of 
silver.  He  usually  had  an  expression  of  blank, 
peering  serenity,  as  meaningless  as  the  light 
upon  the  bowl  of  a  silver  spoon,  but  now  his 
177 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

forehead  was  contracted  and  his  eyes  were 
speculative. 

It  was  the  second  week  of  an  unusually  hot 
June.  There  had  been  no  rain. 

The  wayside  weeds  hung  like  limp  rags,  all 
powdered  with  dust.  Dust  came  up  in  little 
smoke-like  puffs  from  under  his  horse's  hoofs. 
Fields  glanced  complacently  at  his  gray  attire, 
which  would  not  show  dust ;  then  he  thought  of 
the  passed  dividends  of  those  railroad  bonds, 
and  frowned  again.  He  knew  to  a  dollar  the 
extent  of  his  clients'  income — that  is,  with  one 
exception — and  he  feared  lest  this  decrease 
might  interfere  with  their  summer  programme. 
He  passed  slowly  up  the  mountain.  The 
road  wound ;  still  it  was  steep  in  places.  Great 
patches  of  dark  wet  appeared  upon  the  sides 
of  the  horse.  Fields  drew  out  a  clean  handker 
chief  and,  without  disturbing  the  folds,  carefully 
wiped  his  face,  which  was  slightly  flushed. 
That  was  just  before  he  reached  the  avenue  of 
pine-trees  leading  to  the  Allerton  house.  When 
he  drove  beneath  the  high -plumed  branches,  and 
heard  their  far-away  murmur,  and  the  torrid 
glare  of  the  road  was  left  for  a  vista  of  cool 
purplish  green,  he  drew  a  long  breath.  People 
generally  drew  long  breaths  of  relief  when  they 
178 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

entered  that  pine  avenue  upon  a  hot  day. 
Fields  could  see  at  the  end  the  white  Doric 
pillars  of  the  house:  a  large  Colonial  edifice,  all 
shining  with  fresh  white  paint.  The  house  had 
been  newly  painted  that  spring.  The  lawyer 
thought  uneasily  that  it  might  have  been 
deferred  for  another  year  had  he  antici 
pated  those  passed  dividends,  and  then  the 
summer  plans  of  Miss  Camille  and  Miss 
Susanne  Allerton  need  not  have  been  dis 
turbed. 

The  wide  veranda  under  the  Doric  pillars 
was  clean  swept  and  vacant.  There  were 
two  -heads  at  the  two  front  windows  on  the 
left  side  of  the  front  door.  They  nodded  with 
dignified  grace  as  he  passed.  He  knew  that 
there  was  another  head  at  a  side  window,  that 
of  Miss  Helene  Allerton,  the  youngest  of  the 
three  sisters.  He  did  not  think  uneasily  of  her 
as  being  affected  by  the  passed  dividends,  be 
cause  she  had  her  own  little  private  fortune  in 
her  own  right,  inherited  from  the  aunt  for 
whom  she  had  been  named.  Miss  Helene  had 
dealt  with  another  lawyer  with  regard  to  that 
inheritance — a  lawyer  in  a  little  city  ten  miles 
away.  John  H.  had  never  known  its  exact 
extent  nor  how  it  was  invested.  There  was  in 
179 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

consequence  a  slight  feeling  of  coldness  on  his 
part  toward  Miss  Helene. 

When  he  had  driven  into  the  barn  with  its 
arched  door,  and  the  old  man  who  with  his  wife 
were  the  only  servants  in  attendance  had  tied 
his  horse,  and  received  instructions  to  give 
him  sparingly  of  water  when  he  was  somewhat 
cooled,  John  took  out  his  folded  handkerchief 
again,  gave  a  little  flick  at  his  smooth  face, 
another  at  his  coat  fronts,  another  at  his  knees, 
then  passed  around  to  the  front  door,  and 
clanged  decorously  with  the  knocker.  Neither 
Miss  Susanne  nor  Miss  Camille  moved  their 
heads  again.  Their  white  right  hands  flashed 
up  as  regularly  as  mowers  mowing  in  line.  The 
wife  of  the  serving-man  answered  the  knock. 
She  was  small  and  wizened,  with  an  unmis 
takably  Irish  gleam  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  her 
fair  skin  was  as  freckled  as  a  baby's.  Her 
name  was  Bridget  O'Haligan,  and  her  hus 
band's  name  was  Pat  O'Haligan.  The  ladies 
called  her  Brigitte,  with  a  soft  flop  of  accent 
upon  the  last  syllable.  Her  husband's  name, 
being  hopeless,  they  had  metamorphosed  en 
tirely.  They  called  him  Louis.  There  was  in 
the  Allerton  family  an  affectation  so  harmless, 
and  to  the  village  people  so  unique,  that  it  com- 
180 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

pelled  respect,  even  admiration.  They  af 
fected — all  the  Allertons  had  done  so  for  years, 
and  the  three  sisters  did  likewise — a  French 
pose  toward  the  rest  of  humanity.  The  family 
tree  framed  in  dull  gold  hung  in  the  hall,  and 
upon  one  of  the  stiff  branches  perched  a  long- 
dead  collateral  ancestor  who  bore  a  French 
name.  Upon  the  strength  of  this  one  alien 
element,  which  distinguished  them  especially 
from  all  about,  the  Allertons  had  based  their 
little  affectation.  The  ladies  all  spoke  French, 
it  was  said,  with  a  remarkably  pure  accent.  It 
was  confidently  repeated  that  the  sisters  could 
live  in  France  and  never  be  mistaken  for 
Americans.  Helene  was  reported  to  have  been 
many  times  in  France,  and  nobody  had  ever 
found  her  out. 

This  harmless  affectation  had  endured  long 
in  the  Allerton  family.  Many  branches  of  the 
tree  bore  French  Christian  names,  uniformly 
accented  upon  the  last  syllable.  The  father  of 
the  three  sisters  had  been  Honore.  There  had 
been  another  sister,  Lucille,  who  had  died  when 
a  very  young  girl.  Her  pretty  name  was  near 
her  father's  upon  a  lower  branch  of  the  tree, 
and  one  could  fancy  her  as  a  very  small  bird 
fluttering  hence  down  to  her  little  grave  be- 
181 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

neath  another  tree  which  wept  every  spring 
with  long  tears  of  gold-green. 

When  Fields  entered  the  parlor,  the  long 
parlor  with  its  six  windows — the  Allerton  ladies 
had  always  wished  to  call  it  the  salon,  but  had 
never  quite  dared  make  such  an  innovation — 
there  was  distinctly  evident  what  seemed  a 
slight  foreign  element.  A  steel-engraving  of 
Napoleon  was  conspicuous  upon  the  wall 
which  caught  the  best  light.  There  were  also 
steel-engravings  of  Marie  Antoinette  and  the 
Dauphin,  and  many  of  French  nobodies  in 
particular,  characterized  by  high  curled  coif 
fures,  side  wise  wreaths  of  rosebuds,  and  looped 
flowered  skirts.  The  faded  paper  was  done  in  a 
pattern  of  flower-baskets  tied  together  with 
knots  of  silver  ribbon.  The  furniture  was  up 
holstered  in  dim  satin  of  a  First  Empire  pattern, 
and  its  shape  was  First  Empire.  The  floor  was 
a  polished  wood,  with  an  old  French  carpet 
slipping  about  in  the  centre;  there  were  Sevres 
vases  filled  with  roses  on  the  tables  and  shelf, 
and  candlesticks  of  French  make  stood  on  either 
side  of  the  French  clock. 

There  was  about  the  Allerton  ladies  them 
selves,  American  born  and  bred  as  they  were, 
something  strangely  foreign.  They  did  not 
182 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

quite  venture  upon  the  high  powdered  pompa 
dours  of  the  ladies  upon  their  walls,  but  their 
gray  locks  were  marvellously  puffed  and  piled 
above  their  high,  delicate  temples,  under  which 
their  black  eyes  flashed  with  youthful  fire, 
although  they  were  past  youth,  even  the  young 
est  of  them.  There  was  not  much  difference 
in  their  ages.  As  girls  the  Allerton  sisters  had 
been  poetically  likened  by  admirers  to  three 
roses  upon  one  stem.  They  were  unmistakably 
of  the  same  family;  all  had  the  same  high,  thin 
cast  of  aristocratic  face,  with  delicate  nostrils, 
small,  sweetly  compressed  mouths,  and  pointed 
chins.  All  had  long,  slender  hands  with  very 
pointed  finger-tips.  All  had  very  pointed  tips 
of  tiny  feet ;  all  sat  erect  in  tightly  laced  stays, 
with  wide,  carefully  disposed  skirts.  All  wore 
frills  of  lace  around  their  throats,  fastened  with 
amethysts  and  pearls  in  old  French  settings. 
These  jewels  had  come  down  to  them  from  that 
long-dead  French  ancestor  upon  the  family 
tree,  who  had  scattered  his  gems  upon  posterity 
when  he  left  the  world,  and  strewn  the  dark  of 
his  passing  with  pearly  and  purple  and  golden 
gleams.  There  was  a  tradition  that  these  old 
jewels  had  belonged  to  a  French  duchess  whom 
the  Allertons  rather  blushed  to  mention,  al- 
183 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

though  they  were  secretly  proud  at  the  idea  of 
possessing  gems  once  worn  by  so  doubtfully 
honored  a  dame.  The  youngest  sister,  H61ene, 
wore  amethysts  set  in  silver,  and  a  broad  gold 
bracelet  with  a  wonderful  coral  cameo  almost 
covered  the  turn  of  her  slender  wrist  as  she 
sewed.  All  three  sisters  embroidered  industri 
ously  after  they  had  formally  greeted  their  family 
lawyer.  People  in  Allertonville  were  always  spec 
ulating  concerning  this  embroidery.  They  won 
dered  what  it  was,  and  if  it  was  ever  finished. 
Miss  Susanne  embroidered  in  white  upon  fine  lin 
en  ;  Miss  Camille,  also  in  white  upon  fine  linen ;  Miss 
Helene,  always  in  colored  silks  upon  blue  satin. 
Miss  Helene  had  been  unlike  her  sisters  in  one 
respect.  They  had  been  lovely  and  graceful, 
with  an  air  of  high  breeding,  but  she  had  been 
a  great  beauty.  She  was  in  her  own  way  a 
great  beauty  still.  Her  face  retained  its  charm 
ing  contour,  its  satin  complexion,  its  expression 
of  that  indescribable  sweetness  which  confirms 
beauty  in  its  possessor.  She  wore  a  gown  of 
ancient,  faintly  flowered  silk.  Her  arms  were 
round  and  fair,  and  her  lace-trimmed  sleeves 
fell  away  from  them  as  she  embroidered.  A 
wonderful  great  pearl  gleamed  upon  the  third 
finger  of  her  left  hand. 

184 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

That  was  the  only  ring  which  she  ever  wore, 
and  with  it  was  connected  the  romance  of  her 
life:  the  one  romance,  although  she  had  been 
sought  in  marriage  by  many.  She  had  loved 
and  been  betrothed  to  a  young  clergyman,  who 
had  been  consumptive,  and  gone  to  the  south 
of  France  to  recover  his  health,  and  died.  It 
was  a  very  simple  romance,  but  she  had  never 
had  another,  and  she  had  worn  her  young 
lover's  ring  all  these  years.  Her  life  had  been 
apparently  quite  peaceful  and  contented.  If 
the  Allerton  ladies  ever  rebelled  at  their  lots, 
they  accepted  them  with  dignity.  With  all 
their  pride  in  their  French  lineage,  they  evinced 
nothing  of  French  emotionalism.  They  were 
staid  and  sedate  under  all  vicissitudes ;  no  mortal 
had  ever  seen  one  of  them  shed  a  tear  since  she 
was  a  child.  They  never  laughed  with  abandon. 

After  John  H.  Fields  had  told  the  ladies  about 
the  passed  dividends,  Miss  Camille  took  another 
careful  stitch,  and  also  Miss  Susanne  and  Miss 
Helene. 

Fields  was  sitting  in  an  old  embroidered 
chair,  his  stick  in  his  hand,  leaning  forward 
upon  it.  He  had  left  his  hat  in  the  hall,  but 
he  had  clung  to  his  stick.  His  masculine  nature 
required  some  slight  material  support,  although, 

13  185 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

after  all,  he  had  known  exactly  how  his  clients 
would  receive  his  news.  There  was  not  the 
slightest  evidence  of  disturbance  in  one  of  them. 
Only,  after  a  pause,  Miss  Helene  remarked: 
"The  directors  are  taking  advantage  of  the 
panic,  and  are  keeping  the  revenues  for  them 
selves  this  quarter.  They  will  not  dare  to  pass 
next  quarter."  Miss  Helene  was  the  one  of 
them  who  read  the  newspapers  and  drew  her 
own  deductions,  sometimes  caustic.  This  caus 
tic  estimate  of  outside  proceedings  was  the  only 
indication  which  she  ever  gave  of  her  possible 
discontent  with  her  own  monotony  of  life. 
Fields  hastened,  although  with  much  deference, 
to  give  her  his  own  views.  "They  state  that 
the  passing  of  dividends  is  caused  by  necessary 
improvements,"  he  said. 

Miss  Helene  nodded  and  set  another  stitch. 
"No  doubt,"  said  she,  "necessary  improve 
ments  in  the  country  houses  of  the  directors  or 
the  purchase  of  new  motor-cars.  Their  ex 
penses  must  be  heavy.  They  will  not  pass 
dividends  next  quarter,  sisters." 

"It  will  not  inconvenience  us  in  the  least," 
said  Camille,  with  dignity. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Miss  Susanne. 

Then  the  maid  servant  entered,  bearing  a 
186 


THE      SISTERS       DISCOURSED      OF      THE      WEATHER 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

great  silver  tray  laden  with  egg-shell  cups  and 
saucers,  a  silver  basket  with  golden  squares  of 
sponge-cake,  and  a  solid  silver  teapot,  creamer, 
and  sugar-bowl.  Miss  Helene  arose  and  seated 
herself  at  a  little  mahogany  tea-table  covered 
with  a  damask  cloth,  whose  rose  pattern 
gleamed  like  frosted  silver,  and  poured  tea. 

When  all  were  sipping  tea  and  nibbling  cake, 
the  maid  almost  slyly  removed  the  lid  from 
a  great  Indian  china  rose- jar  which  stood  under 
the  mantel,  and  immediately  it  seemed  as  if 
there  were  another  presence  in  the  room:  the 
multiple  ghost,  many- winged  and  many-songed, 
of  old  summers.  This  was  the  usual  proceeding 
after  the  guest  was  served  with  tea.  The  little 
lawyer  made  no  sign  of  noticing  it,  but  he  in 
haled  the  strange  spicy  odor  with  content.  If 
he  had  let  himself  go,  there  was  about  him 
something  of  the  sybarite,  but  he  had  never  let 
himself  go  and  never  would. 

The  sisters  discoursed  of  the  weather  and 
kindred  topics,  and  did  not  mention  the  passed 
dividends  until  Fields  arose.  Then  Miss  Camille 
said,  serenely: 

"I  suppose,  of  course,  then,  it  is  settled  that 
we  are  not  to  expect  our  usual  returns  from 
that  investment  on  the  first  of  July?" 
187 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"I  fear  not,"  stammered  the  lawyer.  "I 
am  sorry,  but,  as  you  know,  it  is  one  of  the  old 
investments  which  your  father  before  you, 
and  my  father  before  me,  favored.  I  trust  it 
will  make  no  difference  in  your  plans." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Helene,  in  her  sweet, 
slightly  decisive  voice.  "Not  at  all.  My 
sisters  will  go  to  Hopton  Springs  as  usual  during 
the  first  week  of  next  month.  I  shall  be  entirely 
able  to  supply  funds  from  my  inheritance." 

Miss  Camille's  face  visibly  brightened.  Miss 
Susanne  looked  sharply  at  her  sister,  then  she 
smiled.  "Thank  you,  dear  Helene,"  said  she. 

The  lawyer  also  looked  relieved.  "I  am 
very  glad,"  he  said;  and  made  his  stiff  adieux, 
got  into  his  buggy,  and  drove  away  down  the 
avenue.  When  by  himself  a  smirk  which  his 
face  had  worn  relaxed.  He  said  to  himself 
how  foolish  he  had  been  to  even  dream  that 
ladies  like  the  Allerton  sisters  would  receive 
unpleasant  news  unpleasantly.  He  had  a  great 
admiration  for  them;  at  the  same  time  he  was 
happy  to  get  away  from  them.  He  had,  as 
always  when  with  them,  experienced  a  strain 
as  of  standing  upon  his  spiritual  tiptoes. 

But  on  their  parts  the  Allerton  sisters  also 
relaxed.  That  pose,  of  so  long  standing  that 
1 88 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

it  was  hardly  a  pose  at  all,  but  their  natural 
attitude  of  self-restraint  and  dignity,  vanished. 
Miss  Camille  looked  at  Susanne  and  Susanne 
looked  at  her;  both  faces  wore  expressions  of 
anxiety.  Then  they  looked  at  Helene.  She 
regarded  them  with  her  sweet,  benevolent 
smile,  which  had  in  it  a  hint  of  whimsicality 
and  disdain  of  the  minor  tribulations  of  life. 
Helene's  smile  had  always  been  of  that  charac 
ter  since  she  had  lost  her  lover  in  her  early 
youth.  Everything  after  that  had  seemed  very 
small  to  her.  Therefore  she  was  indifferent 
in  the  face  of  all  little  worries,  and  she  defied 
them,  armed  as  she  was  with  her  knowledge  of, 
and  survival  of,  greater. 

"Helene,"  said  Susanne. 

"Helene,"  said  Camille. 

"Well,  sisters?"  returned  H<§lene. 

"It  is  not  right  for  you  to  spare  that  money 
that  we  may  go  as  usual  to  Hopton  Springs," 
said  Susanne. 

"No,  it  is  not,"  repeated  Camille;  but  she 
flushed  evidently  as  she  spoke,  and  both  Susanne 
and  Helene  laughed  softly. 

"What  will  Major  Bryant  do  if  you  are  not 
there?"  inquired  H61ene. 

"Yes,"  said  Susanne,  "what  will  he  do?" 
189 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

"There  are  plenty  of  other  ladies  at  Hopton 
Springs,"  responded  Camille,  softly,  but  her 
flush  deepened.  "He  will  have  no  difficulty 
in  finding  a  partner  at  bezique.  I  for  one  will 
never  consent  to  take  your  money,"  said 
Camille. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Susanne. 

"I  fear  it  will  deprive  you  of  your  summer 
vacation,"  said  Camille. 

"Yes,  I  also  fear  that,"  said  Susanne. 

Both  spoke  with  a  slightly  unpleasant  em 
phasis.  Helene  had  always  been  as  reticent 
with  regard  to  her  summer  vacations  as  with 
regard  to  her  inheritance.  She  always  told 
her  sisters  upon  their  return  from  Hopton 
Springs  that  she  also  had  been  enjoying  a  very 
pleasant  outing,  but  she  never  said  where  she 
had  been,  and  both  Camille  and  Susanne  were 
too  proud  to  inquire.  They  agreed  that  it 
was  not  as  if  Helene  were  a  young  girl.  "She 
is  nearly  as  old  as  I  am,"  Camille  would  remark. 

"And  there  is  only  a  very  slight  difference 
between  your  age  and  mine,"  Susanne  would 
rejoin.  "Helene  is  of  years  of  discretion; 
besides,  she  is  an  Allerton  and  a  lady  and  our 
own  sister.  It  is  inconceivable  that— 

"Yes,  it  is  inconceivable,"  Camille  would 
190 


THE    TRAVELLING   SISTER 

hasten  to  say,  with  severity.  "I  am  surprised 
that  you  should — " 

"I  did  not,  Camille,"  Susanne  would  assure 
her.  "Of  course  Helene  goes  to  some  perfectly 
genteel  place  befitting  a  lady  and  an  Allerton." 

"Of  course,"  said  Camille. 

However,  although  they  always  arrived  at 
an  apparently  satisfied  conclusion  concerning 
Helene's  plans  for  the  summer,  there  was  always 
an  undercurrent  of  dissent  and  annoyance  in 
the  minds  of  the  elder  sisters.  Helene  never 
seemed  to  be  aware  of  it.  She  responded  now 
as  serenely  as  ever. 

"It  will  not  make  the  slightest  change  in  my 
plans,  I  assure  you,  sisters,"  she  said. 

Both  Camille  and  Susanne  brightened  visibly. 

"Will  you  go  away  yourself  as  usual?  Can 
you  afford  it?"  asked  Camille,  eagerly. 

"I  certainly  can,"  replied  Helene.  She 
smiled,  and  her  smile  was  at  once  whimsical, 
sweet,  and  patient.  She  folded  her  embroidery 
and  arose.  "It  is  time  for  me  to  superintend 
Brigitte  about  supper,"  she  said,  and  went  out 
of  the  room,  trailing  her  whispering  flowered 
silk  skirt. 

When  the  door  had  closed  softly  after  her 
— an  Allerton  sister  had  never  in  her  life  closed 
191 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

a   door   otherwise    than    softly — Camille    and 
Susanne  looked  at  one  another. 

"Dear  Helene  is  very  kind,"  said  Susanne. 

"Yes,"  responded  Camille.  Then  she  added, 
thoughtfully :  "  If  she  had  not  been  able  to  take 
her  vacation  at  her  own  expense,  if  she  had  been 
obliged  to  share  the  money  with  us,  then  none 
of  us  could  have  gone  all  these  years." 

"Yes,  that  is  true." 

"We  never  could  have  gone  to  Hopton 
Springs  at  all,"  said  Camille.  She  blushed,  and 
her  voice  was  full  of  wondering  conviction. 
"Not  at  all,"  she  repeated. 

"We  certainly  could  not  if  Helene  had  asked 
to  be  considered  in  the  vacation  expenses. 
She  must  have  received  quite  a  large  legacy 
from  Aunt  Helene." 

"Yes,"  assented  Camille. 

Then  both  sisters  blushed.  It  seemed  to 
them  rather  disgraceful  to  allude  in  such  frank 
fashion  to  a  legacy. 

"Poor  Aunt  Helene!"  replied  Susanne. 

"She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,"  sighed 
Camille.  "I  remember  her  very  well." 

"Yes,  so  do  I,"  said  Susanne.     "I  am  pleased 
that  we  shall  be  able  to  go  to  Hopton  Springs, 
and  I  know  you  are,  dear." 
192 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

Camille  blushed  and  nodded  her  delicate  head. 

"I  have  already  begun  to  realize  that  sense 
of  languor  which  comes  over  me  here  in  the 
summer  months,"  said  Susanne. 

"Yes,  dear,  you  really  do  need  the  change," 
Camille  returned,  eagerly. 

"I  would  not  accept  the  money  from  Helene 
if  I  were  not  sure  that  she  is  making  no  sacrifice, 
and  would  go  herself,  as  usual,"  said  Susanne. 

"Neither  would  I." 

Camille  and  Susanne  regarded  each  other 
meditatively. 

"It  is  singular  where  dear  Helene  goes  sum 
mers,"  said  Camille,  at  length. 

Susanne  nodded.  Camille  had  spoken  in  a 
whisper,  and  a  silent  nod  seemed  the  most 
fitting  response. 

"Well,  of  course,  wherever  dear  Helene  goes, 
it  is  eminently  fitting,"  said  Camille. 

Susanne  nodded. 

"But  of  course  it  would  be  very  gratifying 
to  us,  her  older  sisters— 

"We  are  very  slightly  older." 

"Still,  we  are  slightly  older — to  know  in  the 
event  of  one  of  us  being  ill  or — 

"The  letters  are  always  forwarded  which  we 
send  here  from  Hopton  Springs,  and  Helene 
193 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

has  promised  that  we  should  know  immediately 
if  she  were  ill  or  needed  us." 

"Still,  it  is  not  satisfactory,"  said  Camille. 
Then  she  added,  and  her  whisper  was  like  a 
thread  of  finely  drawn  silk:  ''I  wonder — if 
Louis  and  Brigitte  know?" 

"We  cannot  question  servants  concerning 
our  sister." 

"Certainly  not;  only  I  wonder — " 

Then  a  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Brigitte 
stood  there,  and  the  fragrance  of  tea,  hot  bis 
cuits,  and  fried  chicken  floated  into  the  room. 

The  next  day  Camille  and  Susanne  began 
the  preparations  for  their  outing.  Helene  was 
unusually  solicitous  concerning  them.  She 
seemed  especially  interested  in  Camille's  ward 
robe.  She  sewed  assiduously,  laying  aside  her 
embroidery,  making  and  altering  festive  gar 
ments  for  her  sister.  Helene  was  very  skilful 
with  her  needle. 

One  evening,  about  a  week  after  the  lawyer's 
visit,  Helene  entered  Susanne's  room.  Susanne 
was  in  bed,  and  looked  up  at  her  wonder ingly. 
Helene  looked  very  tall  and  fair  in  her  dimity 
dressing-gown.  She  carried  no  candle,  for  the 
full  moon  gave  enough  light,  and  in  that  pale 
radiance  she  appeared  quite  young.  She  pulled 
194 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

a  chair  to  Susanne's  bedside,  and  began  talk 
ing. 

/'Sister,  dear,"  she  said,  "there  is  something 
which  I  wish  to  say  to  you.  I  do  not  wish  Camille 
to  hear,  so  I  have  chosen  this  time  and  place." 

Susanne  looked  at  her  quest ioningly. 

Helene  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  have  been 
thinking,"  she  said  at  last,  "about — " 

Susanne  waited,  staring  at  her. 

"About  Major  Bryant,"  Helene  said,  with 
a  gasp.  Her  face  flushed. 

Susanne  sat  up  in  bed.  "What  about  him?" 
she  asked,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Then  Helene  spoke  out  her  mind.  She  had 
heard  many  allusions  to  this  Major  Bryant.  She 
wished  to  know  if  Susanne  thought  that  he  had 
been  really  attentive  to  Camille. 

"Helene,"  said  Susanne,  fervently,  and  her 
voice  trembled  like  a  girl's,  "I  do  believe  that 
poor  man  has  worshipped  the  very  ground 
Camille  has  trodden  on  from  the  first." 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago,  too,"  said  Helene. 

"Yes,  the  Major  has  been  at  Hopton  Springs 
a  good  many  years  now." 

"And  you  think  Camille  has  always  known 
— that  he  made  it  plain?" 

"I  know  he  did,  sister." 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"And  at  that  time,  however  she  may  feel  now, 
Camille  was  justified  in  considering  a  proposal," 
said  Helene. 

Susanne  hesitated. 

"Why  did  she  not,  if  she  liked  him,  and  I 
begin  to  think  she  always  has?" 

"I  think,"  replied  Susanne,  "that  Camille 
remembered  the  sad  ending  to  your  romance, 
and  she  knew  Major  Bryant  would  have  to  come 
here.  He  lives  in  New  York  at  a  club,  and  of 
course  Camille  could  not  live  in  New  York  at  a 
club;  and  besides,  she  would  not  wish  to  leave 
her  home  for  any  man.  He  would  have  been 
obliged  to  come  here  to  live,  and  I  rather  think 
she  feared  lest  he  might  disturb  your — the 
peace  of  us  all." 

"That  is  perfect  nonsense,"  said  Helene. 
Then  she  bent  closely  toward  her  sister  and 
spoke  earnestly.  "I  know,  Susanne,"  said  she, 
"that  none  of  us  are  young,  but,  after  all,  much 
happiness  often  comes  from  a,  marriage  late  in 
life — that  is,  if  two  really  love  each  other. 
If  this  man,  Major  Bryant,  is  personable  and  is 
fond  of  Camille,  and  she  of  him,  I  wish  that  you 
would  do  all  you  are  able  to  bring  it  to  pass.  I 
think,  for  many  reasons,  it  would  be  well  to 
have  a  man  at  the  head  here.  I  think  I  re- 
196 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

member  your  saying  that  Major  Bryant  is  an 
able  man?" 

"Oh,  very  able.     I  have  no  doubt." 

"I  do  not  feel  quite  satisfied  with  Lawyer 
Fields,"  said  Helene.  '  "I  think  that  he  means 
entirely  well,  and  serves  us  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  but  I  doubt  his  ability.  None  of  us 
know  much  about  business.  I  think  a  man  at 
the  head  of  this  house  would  be  very  desirable." 

"I  think  that  Major  Bryant  is  well-to-do 
himself." 

"That,  of  course,  has  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  it,"  said  Helene,  with  dignity.  "There 
is  enough  here  still  with  proper  care." 

"Of  course,"  murmured  Susanne,  abashed. 

"I  wish,"  said  Helene,  "that  if  this  man  is 
at  Hopton  Springs  this  summer,  and  seems  as 
devoted  as  ever,  you  would  delicately  hint  to 
Camille  my  views  concerning  the  desirability 
of  any  plans  which  she  may  make,  and  I  wish 
that  you  would  do  all  in  your  power,  without, 
of  course,  exceeding  propriety,  to  bring  about 
such  an  arrangement." 

"Yes,  I  will,  Helene,"  stammered  Susanne. 

Then  Helene  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly 

behind  her,  and  Susanne  lay  awake,  and  wept 

a  little.     Camille 's  possible  marriage   seemed 

197 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

like  a  cataclysm.  She  was  not  in  the  least 
jealous,  but  a  pain  of  curiosity  assailed  her. 
No  romance  had  ever  come  to  her.  She  won 
dered  with  a  sense  of  injury  what  it  was  like. 
Romance  in  the  family  at  this  late  date  seemed 
to  her  like  the  advent  of  an  uncanny  spring  in 
the  midst  of  winter. 

Next  day  she  knew  perfectly  well  what  it 
meant  when  Helene  pressed  upon  Camille 's 
acceptance  a  beautiful  gown  of  embroidered 
muslin,  which  had  been  long  among  her  treas 
ures,  and  also  one  of  lavender  satin. 

"Of  course  the  satin  is  perfectly  appropriate," 
said  Helene,  "and  I  understand  that  nowadays 
ladies  much  older  than  we  are  wear  white.  I 
know  they  dress  a  great  deal  at  Hopton  Springs, 
and  this  muslin  with  my  pearl  necklace  will 
make  a  charming  evening  costume  for  you, 
Camille." 

"But,"  faltered  Camille,  "will  you  not  want 
to  wear  the  muslin  yourself,  Helene,  and  the 
pearls,  and  the  lavender  satin?  Do  not  ladies 
dress  so  much  where  you  go?" 

Helene  laughed  rather  queerly.    * '  Not  much, ' ' 

she  replied;  "and  in  any  case  I  have  plenty 

besides.     I  have  my  gray  satin  and  my  black 

lace.     Your  black  lace  requires  a  little  altera- 

198 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

tion,  Camille,  and  I  think  some  fresh  violets 
are  necessary  in  your  lace  bonnet.  I  saw  very 
pretty  violets  at  the  milliner's  in  the  village  last 
week." 

It  followed  that  Camille  went  to  Hopton 
Springs  that  summer  with  a  really  charming 
wardrobe,  which  she  wore  charmingly.  Camille 
had  been  in  her  youth  the  least  beautiful  of  the 
sisters,  but  her  features  had  been  more  solid, 
and  had  resisted  admirably  the  wear  of  time. 
She  was  a  dream  in  her  soft  white  embroidered 
muslin,  with  her  slightly  silvered  hair  piled  high 
on  her  head,  and  surmonted  by  a  wonderful 
shell  comb ;  and  Major  Bryant  was  there  to  see. 

Camille  and  Susanne  remained  at  Hopton 
Springs  through  August  and  half  of  September. 
They  did  not  know  where  Helene  was,  and  no 
body  else  knew,  unless  it  was  the  old  servants, 
and  they  kept  their  own  counsel.  It  was  re 
ported  in  the  village  that  Helene  had  gone  to 
Europe.  It  had  often  been  so  reported  before. 
Helene  had  the  reputation  of  a  great  traveller. 
Allertonville  people  believed  that  she  alone  of 
the  sisters  had  in  reality  gone  to  France  and 
spoken  French.  It  was  even  whispered  that  she 
had  been  around  the  world.  Sometimes  even 
her  sisters,  with  their  utter  ignorance  of  Helene's 
199 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

resources,  wondered  if  possibly  she  spent  a 
summer  abroad  now  and  then.  They  wondered 
during  this  last  summer. 

''She  may  have  run  over  to  France,"  Camille 
said,  now  and  then,  to  Susanne. 

" Possibly,"  assented  Susanne. 

"She  must  have  a  considerable  income  from 
dear  Aunt  Helene,"  said  Camille. 

"Of  course  she  must,  to  have  taken  vaca 
tions  all  these  years,  and  not  been  obliged  to 
require  her  own  share  of  the  extra  money  from 
the  estate,"  said  Susanne;  "and  it  is  quite 
possible  that  she  may  have  run  over  to  France." 

"Perhaps  to  the  south  of  France,  to  see  where 
he  died,"  murmured  Camille.  She  spoke  sen 
timentally  and  blushed,  and  Susanne  regarded 
her  with  admiring  curiosity.  It  was  a  hot 
summer,  and  she  reflected  that  it  might  be  very 
uncomfortable  in  the  south  of  France,  but  she 
also  reflected  that  she  herself  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  the  leadings  of  love  and  loving 
memories  which  would  enable  one  to  gain  a 
melancholy  sweetness  from  discomfort. 

When  Camille  and  Susanne  returned  to 
Allertonville,  Major  Bryant  came  with  them. 
Camille  was  as  sweet  as  a  girl  when  she  entered 
her  home  and  presented  the  stately,  handsome 

200 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

man  to  her  sister  Helene.  It  was  understood 
that  Helene  had  returned  from  her  mysterious 
trip  the  week  before.  Helene  made  her  sister's 
lover  very  welcome. 

"We  are  to  be  married  in  October,"  Camille 
confided  to  her  that  night.  Then  she  added, 
with  a  pitiful  little  cry,  as  if  pleading  for  hap 
piness:  "Oh,  H61ene,  do  you  think  I  am  very 
silly?" 

"You  are  not  at  all  silly,  dear,"  said  Helene. 
"You  would  be  very  silly  indeed  if  you  did  not 
take  all  the  good  that  life  offers  you.  It  would 
be  like  sulking  to  refuse  because  it  came  late." 

"Don't  you  think  he  is  a  charming  man?" 
whispered  Camille .  Camille '  s  silvery  hair  curled 
when  unloosened.  It  curled  now  all  around  her 
face,  concealing  whatever  was  shrunken  in  its 
contours.  Her  head,  rising  out  of  great  frills  of 
lace,  looked  lovely  in  the  candle-light.  She 
eyed  like  a  child  her  slender  left  hand,  upon  the 
third  finger  of  which  a  great  pearl  set  in  dia 
monds  gleamed.  Both  sisters  were  in  Camille's 
chamber,  which  was  a  pretty  room,  all  frilled 
with  a  rose-patterned  chintz. 

H61ene  laughed.  "I  think  he  is  very  charm 
ing,  dear,"  she  replied,  in  her  slightly  bantering 
tone.  But  suddenly  Camille  eyed  her  anxiously. 

14  201 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

"Oh,  H61ene,  what  is  it?"  she  cried. 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear?"  asked  Helene, 
quietly. 

"You  are  ill.  You  look  bad.  I  have  been 
so  selfish  over  my  own  affairs;  I  have  noticed 
it  before.  What  is  it,  Helene?" 

"Nothing,  dear,  except  that  I  am  ill,  I 
think." 

"Is  it — serious?" 

"I  think  so.  There,  there,  Camille  dear, 
don't  let  your  tardy  joy  be  dimmed  by  this. 
These  things  have  to  come  to  us  all." 

"You  are  not — "  sobbed  Camille. 

"Yes,  dear,  I  think  I  am  going  to  die  before 
very  long,  but  I  hope  I  am  not  wicked  to  be 
happy  about  it.  You,  now  you  have  a  lover, 
dear,  can  understand  how  I  have  missed  mine 
all  these  years." 

"Oh,  Helene,  what  is  it?     Do  you  suffer?" 

"Not  at  all.     Do  not  worry,  sweet." 

"It  is  not — not  near?" 

"I  dare  say  not;  don't  worry,  Camille.  Think 
how  happy  you  are  yourself." 

"You  may  live  for  years?"  gasped  Camille. 

"Yes,  I  may,  dear.  I  may  outlive  you  all. 
Nobody  knows.  What  do  the  medical  men 
know?" 

202 


THE   TRAVELLING   SISTER 

"I  suppose  it  is  that  old  trouble  about  your 
heart?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Helene,  in  a  short-breathed 
voice.  "Don't  worry,  dear.  When  I  said  I 
thought  it  would  be  soon  I  dare  say  I  spoke 
at  random.  I  only  have  thought  that  perhaps 
— it  would  be  best  for  you  to  be  prepared  in 
case —  But  now  you  have  this  good  man  to 
take  care  of  you  and  manage  everything  I 
shall  be  relieved  of  so  much,  and  shall  be  so 
happy  I  may  indeed  live  years." 

"You  have  had  too  much  care;  I  know  you 
have,"  sobbed  Camille. 

' :  I  was  the  only  one  of  us  all  who  could  add 
a  column  straight,"  laughed  Helene.  "I  had 
to  do  what  I  could.  Now  your  Major  can  keep 
the  accounts.  I  shall  lie  back  and  rest." 

"And  it  may  be  years?" 

"Yes,  it  may  be  years."  Helene's  short- 
breathed  voice  had  the  sweetest  of  falling 
cadences.  She  bent  over  her  sister  and  kissed 
her  and  whispered  in  her  ear.  * '  I  am  glad  that 
joy  on  earth  has  come  to  one  of  us,"  she  whis 
pered,  and  went  out,  and  Camille  never  saw 
her  again  alive. 

The  next  morning  Helene  did  not  appear, 
and  she  was  found  lying  quietly  in  her  white- 
203 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

draped  bed.  She  did  not  answer  nor  move 
when  she  was  called,  but  lay  in  the  greatest 
silence  of  all,  with  smiling,  upturned  face. 

It  was  two  months  after  the  funeral,  and 
after  Camille's  marriage  to  Major  Bryant,  that 
Heine's  journal  wTas  read.  The  last  entry  is 
quoted  herein.  H61ene  wrote  thus:  "I  have 
a  confession  to  make.  I  may  be  thought  even 
by  those  who  love  me  best  and  hold  me  in  best 
repute  to  have  been  guilty  of  untruth.  I  my 
self  do  not  think  that  I  have  been,  but  it  may 
be  that  I  do  not  see  clearly  the  right  and  wrong, 
being  blinded  by  love.  When  I  have  stated, 
all  these  years,  that  I  myself  was  upon  a  journey 
while  my  dear  sisters  were  away,  I  have  so 
considered,  although  I  have  never  left  this 
house  in  which  I  write,  and  the  servants  have 
known  and  have  kept  my  secret.  I  have  con 
sidered  that  I  have  never  for  one  instant  stayed 
my  progress  toward  the  great  goal  of  all  born 
of  woman.  You,  Camille  and  Susanne,  have 
as  it  were  simply  passed  into  another  car  of  the 
train  which  bears  us  all  forward  past  the  scenes 
of  earth  to  eternity.  I  have  remained  in  my 
own  place,  and  yet  in  one  sense  have  I  also  not 
remained  in  my  place.  I  myself  went  back 
ward  in  the  train  when  you  went  forward. 
204 


THE   TRAVELLING    SISTER 

Every  solitary  summer  I  returned  to  my  sweet 
past.  My  old  days  of  romance  were  my  resort 
of  rest  for  body  and  soul.  I  have  made  every 
day,  while  you  were  away,  a  day  of  my  lost 
youth.  By  long  dwelling  upon  that  which 
is  gone  I  have  been  enabled  to  bring  it  to  a 
semblance  of  life.  As  truly  as  I  write  this  do  I 
believe  that  this  very  summer,  while  you  have 
been  absent,  I  have  spent  whole  days  with  my 
beloved  and  lived  over  old  and  exquisite  ex 
periences.  I  have  dressed  my  hair  for  my  lover, 
I  have  worn  the  gowns  and  ornaments  he  used 
to  like,  and,  as  God  is  my  witness,  I  have  seemed 
to  see  my  own  face  of  youth  in  my  glass  after 
many  a  happy  day.  I  have  travelled  farther 
than  most,  for  I  have  returned  while  yet  in  the 
flesh  to  the  lost  land  of  youth,  and  I  have  also 
gone  forward,  but  of  that  I  do  not  speak. 

"And  now  I  have  still  another  confession  to 
make.  Aunt  Helene's  legacy  consisted  only 
of  the  sum  sufficient  to  pay  your  expenses  this 
summer.  She  had  spent  all  besides.  In  this, 
too,  I  deceived  you  because  I  loved  you — for 
your  happiness.  I  myself  believe  that  deceit 
for  the  sake  of  love  may  be  truth  in  the  highest, 
but,  if  it  be  not  so,  then  I  have  to  crave  for 
giveness  from  love." 

205 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

The  journal  of  H61ene  Allerton  closed  with 
verses  which  were  used  as  her  epitaph,  and  were 
doubtless  so  designed  to  be  used  by  herself, 
and  they  ran  in  this  wise: 

' '  Here  lies  beneath  this  solemn  stone 

One  who  has  travelled  far  and  wide 

With  painful  steps,  but  made  no  moan, 

Since  Love  was  always  by  her  side. 

"  But  now  she  hails  the  blessed  night 

When  she  may  lay  her  down  to  sleep 
Through  sun  or  storm  or  fruit  or  blight, 
With  Love  her  happy  soul  to  keep." 


HER   CHRISTMAS 


HER   CHRISTMAS 


MAYBE  looked  happily  at  the 
stocking  stuffed  bunchily  from  toe  to 
top,  hanging  beside  the  open  fireplace,  then 
at  Flora  Greenway.  "Yes,"  said  she,  "it  is 
crammed  full.  Little  Grace  will  be  so  tickled 
she  won't  know  what  to  do." 

Flora  laughed  pleasantly.  "I  wish  I  could 
see  her  when  she  takes  the  presents  out," 
said  she.  Flora  was  a  large,  plain  girl,  with 
a  sweet  expression  and  a  high,  benevolent 
forehead.  She  was  engaged  to  be  married 
to  Grace's  brother-in-law,  Oliver  Maybe.  She 
taught  school  for  her  living  and  supported  her 
orphan  niece,  little  Annie  Greenway. 

"I  do  wish  you  could  see  her  take  the  pres 
ents  out,"  said  Grace;  "but  I  expect  she  will 
be  up  by  dawn." 

"Too  early  for  me,"  laughed  Flora,  "and 
209 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

you  know  I  have  to  see  to  Annie's  Christmas 
stocking,  too,  dear." 

"So  you  have." 

Flora  looked  at  the  stocking,  which  was 
capped  with  a  sprig  of  holly.  "I  have  some 
holly,  too,"  said  she.  "Annie  has  hung  her 
stocking,  and  I  have  a  sprig  of  holly  on  top." 

"I  had  to  use  one  of  my  own  stockings," 
said  Grace.  "Little  Grace's  would  not  have 
begun  to  hold  the  things.  She  really  has  al 
most  too  nice  and  expensive  presents  this 
year.  There  are  a  little  gold  ring  with  a  tiny 
pearl  from  her  aunt  Emma,  and  a  gold  locket 
and  chain  from  her  uncle  Oliver,  and  her 
grandma  Maybe  sent  her  a  lovely  coral  string, 
and  her  grandpa  a  five  -  dollar  gold  piece. 
Then  the  doll  I  have  been  dressing  for  her 
will  have  to  sit  on  the  floor  under  the  stock 
ing.  Of  course,  that  will  not  go  in,  and  her 
father  is  going  to  bring  home  a  sled  to-night, 
and  a  doll's  house." 

"You  will  spoil  her,"  said  Flora.  Then  she 
added,  hastily:  "But  you  can't,  dear,  I  know. 
She  is  such  a  darling.  You  can't  spoil  such  a 
child  as  little  Grace,  and  I  can't  spoil  my 
Annie!" 

"What  have  you  got  for  Annie ?" 
210 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

Flora  colored.  "I  could  not  buy  her  much 
except  necessary  things,"  said  she;  "but  I 
have  dressed  a  doll,  and  I  found  a  real  cun 
ning  set  of  china  dishes  for  a  quarter  at  Sim 
mons'.  She  won't  know  the  difference." 

Grace  rose  hastily.  "Wait  a  minute,  dear," 
she  said.  "I  have  a  box  of  candy  and  a  game 
I  want  to  give  you  to  put  in  Annie's  stock- 
ing." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Flora  said,  gratefully. 

"I  have  them  all  ready,  tied  up  with  rib 
bons,"  said  Grace.  "They  are  in  my  room;  I 
will  bring  them  right  down." 

When  Grace  came  back,  trailing  her  blue 
tea-gown,  she  had  her  hands  full.  "Here, 
dear,"  she  said.  "I  want  you  to  take  this 
box  of  handkerchiefs,  and  this  boy  doll,  too. 
I  got  them  for  little  Grace,  but  they  simply 
will  not  go  into  the  stocking,  and  she  has 
enough  as  it  is." 

Flora  was  standing  at  the  window  as  Grace 
entered.  She  was  looking  at  a  stand  of  gera 
niums  in  blossom.  The  shade  was  up,  and 
one  could  see  outside  the  snowy  landscape 
and  the  full  moon  overhead.  Flora  had  put 
on  her  old  fur-lined  cloak  while  Grace  was 
out  of  the  room.  She  turned  with  it  wrapped 

211 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

around  her,  and  extended  a  hand  for  Grace's 
gifts,  and  thanked  her  sweetly. 

"Annie  will  be  so  pleased,"  she  said,  "and, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  been  feeling  rather 
sad  all  day  because  I  had  so  little  to  put  in  the 
dear  child's  stocking.  You  know  I  have  hard 
work  to  make  both  ends  meet." 

"I  know,"  said  Grace,  sympathetically. 
"What  made  you  put  your  cloak  on,  dear? 
Isn't  the  room  warm  enough?" 

"Oh  yes,  but  I  really  must  go.  I  don't 
feel  quite  easy  about  leaving  Annie  alone  in 
the  house  any  longer." 

"Why,  Flora,  aren't  you  going  to  wait  for 
Oliver?  He  must  be  home  before  long  now. 
The  Masons'  meetings  never  last  much  after 
ten." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  can." 

"I  expect  Joe,  too,  every  minute.  He  will 
go  home  with  you." 

"No,  I  think  I  had  better  not  wait,  really, 
Grace." 

All  this  time  Grace  had  been  standing  with 
her  back  toward  the  fireplace.  "Aren't  you 
afraid?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

Flora  laughed.  "Afraid  on  the  village  street 
in  broad  moonlight!  Why,  it  is  as  light  as 

212 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

day,"  she  answered,  "and  it  is  such  a  short 
distance,  anyway.  Tell  Oliver  that  I  am  sorry 
not  to  see  him,  but  I  felt  that  I  ought  not  to 
wait." 

Grace  went  to  the  door  with  Flora,  and 
afterward  stood  at  the  window  behind  the 
stand  of  geraniums,  watching  her  hurry  down 
the  street.  The  street  and  sidewalk,  hard 
packed  with  snow,  gleamed  like  a  track  of 
silver.  Flora's  dark  figure,  bulging  at  one 
side  with  the  parcels  which  she  carried  under 
her  fur-lined  cloak,  was  clearly  outlined  until 
she  passed  out  of  sight.  She  lived  about  half 
a  mile  down  the  street. 

Then  Grace  turned  around,  and  her  eyes 
instinctively  sought  the  Christmas  stocking — 
her  dear  little  daughter's  Christmas  stock 
ing.  It  was  not  there.  Grace  stared,  bewil 
dered.  She  rubbed  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  must  be  mistaken — that  the 
stocking  must  be  there.  She  went  over  to 
the  fireplace  and  actually  felt  of  the  brass 
hook  on  which  the  bellows  usually  hung  and 
on  which  the  stocking  had  been  suspended, 
and  there  was  absolutely  nothing  there.  "It 
can't  be  that  I  feel  wrong  as  well  as  see  wrong," 
Grace  said,  aloud,  in  a  stupid  fashion.  She 
213 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

stood  quite  still,  staring.  She  was  dazed. 
She  had  gone  up-stairs,  leaving  her  dearest 
friend  and  her  sister-to-be  in  the  room  with  that 
Christmas  stocking.  Now  her  friend  was  gone, 
and  the  stocking  was  gone.  Her  mind  refused 
to  grasp  the  facts. 

Finally  she  sat  down  beside  the  hearth  and 
tried  to  think,  to  reason  out  the  matter,  but 
it  was  all  in  vain.  It  was  like  trying  to  solve 
an  algebraical  problem  not  fairly  stated.  The 
premises  were  all  awry.  There  was  no  solution 
in  reason.  Grace  thought  blindly  of  Maggie, 
the  one  servant  in  the  house.  Maggie  was 
honest  beyond  question,  and,  moreover,  Maggie 
could  prove  an  alibi.  Maggie  w^as  not  in  the 
house,  had  not  been  in  the  house  since  noon. 
However,  Grace  went  up-stairs  to  Maggie's 
room,  to  find  it  empty,  and  Maggie's  feathered 
hat,  which  always  decorated  her  dresser  when 
not  afield,  was  missing.  On  her  way  down 
stairs  Grace  peeped  into  little  Grace's  room. 
Little  Grace's  room  was  separated  by  a  narrow 
closet  from  her  parents'  apartment  and  was 
a  rosy  nest,  with  wall-paper  strewn  with  gar 
lands  of  rosebuds,  the  daintiest  white  furni 
ture  painted  with  a  charming  rose  design, 
white  muslin  curtains  tied  with  pink  ribbons, 
214 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

and  a  rose-patterned  rug  by  the  white  bed. 
In  this  bed  lay  little  Grace,  as  pink  and  sweet 
as  a  rose  herself,  with  her  tangle  of  curly  brown 
hair,  and  her  closed  eyes  with  long  dark  fringes 
against  her  flushed  cheeks. 

*  The  little  precious, ' '  murmured  Grace.  Then 
she  thought  with  dismay  how  disappointed 
the  darling  would  be  when  she  did  not  find  the 
stocking  which  she  had  hung  with  such  innocent 
faith  before  she  had  gone  to  bed.  Of  course 
there  would  be  the  big  doll  and  the  sled  and  the 
doll's  house,  but  none  of  them  would  go  into  a 
stocking.  What  would  poor  little  Grace  do  ? 

When  Grace  went  down-stairs  she  heard  a 
click  in  the  lock  of  the  front  door,  and  knew 
with  a  throb  of  relief  that  Joe,  her  husband, 
had  come.  When  the  door  was  open  she 
flung  herself  toward  him  with  a  hysterical  sob. 
Joe  Maybe,  who  was  a  large,  happy-faced 
young  man  in  a  fur-lined  coat,  carefully  set 
some  packages'  on  the  floor,  then  turned  his 
attention  to  his  wife.  "Why,  Grace  dear," 
he  asked,  anxiously,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"Little  Grace's  stocking  has  gone,"  Grace 
sobbed. 

"Gone?" 

"Yes,  go— ne!" 

215 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"Where?" 

"Don't  be  a  goose.  If  I  knew  where,  do 
you  think  I  would  be  so  upset?" 

* '  But  where  ?"  asked  Joe,  inconsequently ,  again. 

"Joe  Maybe,  if  you  ask  where  again  you'll 
drive  me  raving  mad." 

Then  Joe  said  nothing  at  all.  He  stood 
staring  stupidly  at  his  wife,  who  spoke  stam- 
meringly,  giving  the  facts — the  utterly  un 
reasonable,  impossible  facts. 

When  she  had  done,  Joe  continued  to  stare 
for  a  second.  Then  he  said,  "Sure  the  stocking 
was  there?" 

"Joe  Maybe,  are  you  losing  your  wits? 
Didn't  you  help  me  fill  that  stocking  before 
you  went  down  street?" 

"So  I  did.  Are  you  sure  you  didn't  take 
it  away — hang  it  somewhere  else?" 

"I  know  I  did  not." 

"Where  is  Maggie?"  then  asked  Joe,  feebly. 

"I  gave  her  an  afternoon  out.  She  went 
away  right  after  luncheon,  and  has  not  been 
home  since." 

"How  long  were  you  out  of  the  room?" 

"Perhaps  ten  minutes — no  longer." 

"And  Flora  was  there  when  you  went  up 
stairs?" 

216 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

"Joe  Maybe!" 

Joe  flushed  angrily.  "You  don't  think  that 
I  think—"  he  spluttered. 

"I  hope  you  aren't  quite  such  a  fool,  Joe 
Maybe." 

"I  don't  believe,  for  my  part,  that  the 
stocking  was  there  when  you  went  out,"  de 
clared  Joe,  with  an  air  of  sudden  wise  decision. 

4 'Joe  Maybe,  don't  you  believe'  I  can  see 
with  my  own  eyes?" 

"I  think  you  sometimes  get  rattled." 

Then  Grace  waxed  indignant.  "I  dare  say 
you  think  I  am  rattled  now,"  said  she.  "Per 
haps  you  think  the  stocking  is  there,  after 
all." 

Suddenly  Grace  seized  her  husband  by  his 
huge  fur-clad  shoulders  and  gave  him  a  twist 
toward  the  open  library  door.  From  where 
they  stood  the  fireplace  was  distinctly  visible. 
"Look!"  said  she,  imperiously. 

"It  ain't  there,"  admitted  Joe,  relapsing 
into  the  vernacular  of  his  boyhood  through 
consternation. 

Then  Grace  committed  the  very  error  for 
which  she  had  chidden  her  husband.  "Where 
is  it?"  she  said,  helplessly. 

"How  in  creation  do  you  suppose  I  know?" 
is  217 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

asked  Joe.  "Haven't  I  just  come  in,  and 
the  last  thing  I  saw  when  I  went  away  was 
that  confounded  stocking  hanging  there,  with 
the  sprig  of  holly  on  top." 

The  two  stood  staring  at  each  other,  but 
Grace  was  the  first  to  recover  a  measure  of 
equanimity.  "Well,  the  stocking  is  gone," 
said  she,  with  decision,  "and  that  isn't  the 
question  now.  The  question  now  is  how  are 
we  to  manage  so  that  precious  darling  shall 
not  have  her  dear  little  Christmas  spoiled. 
She  must  have  her  stocking  filled  with  some 
thing.  Of  course  we  can't  replace  all  those 
lovely  things  our  relatives  have  sent  her,  but 
it  must  be  stuffed  full,  Joe  Maybe." 

"Have  you  got  anything  to  put  in  it?" 
asked  Joe. 

"Not  a  thing  except  a  box  of  candy.  I 
gave  everything  I  had  left  over  to  Flora  for 
Annie."  Both  Grace's  and  Joe's  face  con 
tracted  as  with  an  unspoken,  uneasy  thought 
at  the  mention  of  Flora.  "Are  all  the  stores 
shut?"  asked  Grace. 

"Simmons'  wasn't  when  I  left,  and  I  dare 
say  if  I  hurry  it  won't  be  before  I  get  back 
there." 

Grace  gave  him  a  push.  "Then  hurry  just 
218 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

as  fast  as  you  can!"  she  cried.  "Get  anything 
to  fill  a  stocking.  Get  games,  boxes  of  children's 
paper,  balls,  kaleidoscopes — anything.  Run  just 
as  fast  as  ever  you  can,  Joe  Maybe!" 

Joe  was  fairly  pushed  out  the  door,  and  he 
raced  down  the  moonlit  street  with  his  head  in  a 
whirl  like  the  very  kaleidoscope  which  his  wife 
had  mentioned.  All  sorts  of  toys  of  childhood 
seemed  revolving  before  his  mental  vision, 
making  endless  queer  and  bewildering  com 
binations. 

Meantime  Grace  went  up-stairs  and  got  the 
mate  to  the  missing  stocking,  and  brought  it 
down.  Then  she  sat  waiting  for  Joe's  return. 
Again  she  tried  to  bring  reason  out  of  the  un 
reasonable  situation,  and  again  her  mind  labored 
in  vain.  Then  Oliver,  her  husband's  brother, 
came  in  and  found  her  sitting  there.  He 
glanced  first  at  her,  then  at  the  fireplace. 

"Hullo!"  said  he,  "where's  Flora?  What 
on  earth  is  the  matter,  Grace?  Where  is  the 
kid's  stocking?"  The  three  questions  were 
fired  very  rapidly  at  Grace,  and  she  answered 
the  last  first. 

"It  has  disappeared,"  said  she,  in  an  em 
barrassed  fashion. 

At  first  Oliver  laughed.  "Disappeared!"  he 
219 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

echoed.  "What!  did  Santa  Claus  take  a  no 
tion  to  give  it  to  another  kid?  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"What  I  say,"  repeated  Grace.  "It  has 
disappeared." 

"Disappeared!  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  I  left  it  hanging  there,  and 
went  up-stairs  for  something,  and  when  I  re 
turned  that  stocking  had  disappeared." 

1 '  Who  was  in  the  house  ?  Had  anybody  come 
into  the  room  ?  Was  the  front  door  unlocked  ?" 
Oliver  Maybe  had  a  curious  manner  of  putting 
questions  in  bunches. 

Grace  answered  the  last  question  and  ignored 
the  others. 

"No,"  said  she. 

Oliver  whistled.  "It  beats  anything  I  ever 
heard,"  said  he.  "Where's  Flora?  I  thought 
she  was  coming  over." 

"She  did  come,  and  went  home.  She  left 
word  that  she  was  sorry,  but  thought  she  ought 
not  to  wait  any  longer  and  leave  Annie  alone." 

"I  think  she  might  have  waited,"  said  Oliver. 

His  face  scowled  slightly.     He  looked  like   his 

brother,  but  he  had  a  nervous  temperament 

and  was  not  always  so  good-natured.     "What 

220 


HER  CHRISTMAS 

did  she  think  of  the  stocking's  disappearance?" 
he  asked. 

Grace  colored. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?" 

"I  didn't  tell  her,"  said  Grace,  faintly. 

"Why  not?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  did  not  know  it  myself 
until  after  she  was  gone,"  said  Grace. 

"I  suppose  she  noticed  it  hanging  there," 
Oliver  said,  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"Yes;  we  both  talked  about  it,"  said  Grace, 
still  constrainedly;  but  Oliver  did  not  notice 
the  constraint. 

"Well,  what  is  to  be  done?"  he  asked.  "It 
will  break  that  child's  heart  if  she  does  not 
have  her  Christmas  stocking." 

"Joe  has  run  back  to  Simmons*  to  buy 
some  things,"  said  Grace.  "Of  course,  it 
must  be  filled." 

Oliver  took  out  his  wallet,  and  handed 
Grace  a  ten-dollar  note.  "Sorry  I  haven't 
got  a  gold-piece,"  said  he,  "but  that  will 
have  to  do.  Tuck  it  in  the  toe,  Grace." 

"When  I  think  of  that  lovely  locket  and 
chain  you  bought  for  little  Grace,  I  could 
cry,"  said  Grace.  "Thank  you,  Oliver.  It 
is  too  much  for  you  to  do." 

221 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

Oliver  still  scowled.  "Oh,  that's  nothing," 
said  he.  "I  don't  mind  that,  but  it  is  the 
queerest  thing  I  ever  heard.  Did  you  say 
the  front  door  was  unlocked  ?" 

Grace  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"Was  it?"  persisted  Oliver. 

"I  think  it  was  unlocked,"  Grace  replied, 
faintly. 

Then  Oliver  jumped  up. 

"Good  Lord,  Grace!"  he  cried.  "Don't  you 
see  what  it  means,  then  ?  There  was  a  sneak- 
thief  in  the  house — he  must  have  got  in  while 
we  were  at  supper.  I  know  the  front  door 
wasn't  locked  then,  for  I  was  the  first  to  go  out, 
and  I  remember  it  was  unlocked.  Why,  Grace, 
he  must  be  in  the  house  now,  unless  he  had  a 
chance  to  steal  out  while  Joe  was  here!" 

Grace  began  to  look  pale.  ' '  He  couldn't  possi 
bly,  ' '  she  gasped.  ' '  Oh,  Oliver,  do  you  think —  ?" 

"Why,  there  must  be!  Here,  give  me  that 
lamp.  You  stay  here." 

But  Grace  had  spirit.  "No,  you  are  not 
going  a  step  without  me,"  she  declared.  "But 
do  be  as  still  as  you  can.  I  don't  want  little 
Grace  frightened — she  is  so  nervous.  If  there 
should  be  a  man,  don't  you  think  you  can 
make  him  be  quiet,  Oliver?" 

222 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

"1  rather  think  I  can,"  Oliver  said,  grimly. 
He  strode  out  into  the  hall  with  the  lamp, 
Grace  at  his  heels.  Then  he  got  a  stout 
walking-stick  from  the  stand,  and  he  and 
Grace  searched  the  whole  house.  They  even 
went  down  cellar,  and  up  in  the  attic,  but 
there  was  no  sneak-thief.  They  peeped  into 
little  Grace's  rosy  nest,  and  she  still  lay  seem 
ingly  fast  asleep,  with  the  brown  tangle  of  silky 
hair  over  her  rosy  cheeks.  ''Bless  her  heart," 
whispered  Oliver,  who  adored  his  niece. 

When  they  were  back  in  the  library  they 
looked  at  each  other.  Grace's  eyes  fell  be 
fore  her  brother-in-law's.  "What  do  you  make 
of  it?"  asked  Oliver,  crossly.  Grace  shook  her 
head. 

Then  they  heard  Joe  at  the  front  door,  and 
Grace  ran  to  admit  him.  Joe's  arms  were  full 
of  parcels. 

"I  got  there  just  as  they  were  closing,"  he 
panted.  "I  was  just  in  time.  Guess  I've  got 
enough  to  fill  the  stocking." 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  anyway,  Joe?" 
Oliver  asked,  still  crossly. 

"Hush,  for  goodness'  sake!"  whispered  Grace, 
taking  some  of  the  parcels  from  her  husband's 
hands.     "You  will  wake  up  little  Grace," 
223 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

And  they  hushed;  but  there  was  really  no 
need  whatever  for  caution,  for  little  Grace  was 
quite  wide  awake,  and  had  been  all  the  time. 
She  was  awake,  and  very  conscience-stricken. 
Little  Grace  Maybe  might  have  been  cited  at 
that  time  as  a  good  example  of  the  unwisdom 
of  telling  children  about  Santa  Glaus,  since 
she  had  been  thereby  led  into  deceit  and  the 
worst  naughtiness  of  which  she  had  ever  been 
guilty.  Little  Grace  had  always  been  called 
a  very  good  girl,  quite  a  pattern  for  other 
children.  She  was  naturally  obedient  and 
loving  and  truthful,  but  now  she  had  fallen 
from  grace  and  bumped  her  spiritual  fore 
head  and  sadly  skinned  her  spiritual  knees. 
And  it  had  all  come  to  pass  through  her  en 
tire  belief  in  Santa  Glaus.  That  afternoon 
she  had  been  permitted  to  go  over  and  visit 
Minnie  Anderson,  who  lived  next  door,  and 
who,  coming  from  German  stock,  was  quite 
filled  with  Christmas  lore.  The  two  children 
had  been  left  alone  together  while  Minnie's 
mother  dressed  her  Christmas  doll,  and  they 
talked.  And  Minnie  had  filled  little  Grace's 
head  with  dire  misgivings.  "If,"  Minnie  had 
said,  "you  have  not  been  a  real  good  girl  all 
the  year  you  will  have  a  bundle  of  sticks  in- 
224 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

stead  of  presents  in  your  stocking.''  And  little 
Grace  had  tried  very  hard  to  remember  whether 
she  had  or  had  not  been  good  all  the  year.  Once, 
she  admitted,  when  pressed  by  Minnie's  ques 
tioning,  she  had  been  guilty  of  helping  herself 
to  a  spoonful  of  jelly  without  her  mother's 
knowledge,  and  once  she  had  cried  when  her 
mother  would  not  let  her  go  to  the  store  with 
her.  Minnie  was  of  the  opinion  that  these  two 
misdemeanors  might  have  caused  little  Grace 
to  lose  her  chance  of  Christmas  presents.  She, 
Minnie,  could  not  remember  anything  as  bad 
of  which  she  had  been  guilty.  It,  therefore, 
ended  in  little  Grace's  returning  home  in  a  very 
doleful  state  of  mind,  and  hanging  her  stocking 
with  a  hopeless  feeling  that  she  had  much 
better  not.  She  had  not  fallen  asleep,  but 
had  lain  awake,  thinking,  and  out  of  her 
thoughts  arose  finally  a  tiny  flame  of  re 
sentment  and  rebellion.  She  did  not  think 
that  she  had  been  so  very  naughty  because 
she  had  taken  just  one  spoonful  of  jelly,  and 
she  had  wanted  very  much  to  go  to  the  store 
that  time  when  she  had  cried.  It  began  to 
seem  to  little  Grace  that  the  loss  of  Christ 
mas  presents  and  the  substitution  of  a  bun 
dle  of  sticks  was  entirely  too  severe  a  penalty 
225 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

for  such  little  sins.  She  accordingly  began 
to  consider  how  she  could  circumvent  her 
hard  fate.  She  had  heard  her  mother  come 
up-stairs.  She  had  not  known  that  her  aunt 
Flora,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  call  her, 
was  in  the  library.  She  had  stolen  down 
stairs,  and  she  had  started  at  the  sight  of 
Flora ;  but  when  she  had  seen  that  she  did  not 
notice  her,  she  had  slipped  across  the  room 
and  stolen  her  own  Christmas  stocking  and 
fled  up  the  back  stairs  and  gotten  back  into 
bed.  She  was  hugging  the  stocking  close 
when  her  mother  peeped  in  at  her  the  first  time. 
The  second  time  she  had  it  hidden  away  at  the 
bottom  of  her  doll's  trunk,  which  stood  at  the 
foot  of  her  bed. 

When  little  Grace's  father  and  mother  came 
up  for  the  night  and  peeped  lovingly  in  at  her 
for  the  third  time,  and  her  mother  gave  her 
rose-sprinkled  silk  quilt  a  tender  tuck ;  when  she 
heard  them  whispering  in  the  next  room  and 
knew  quite  well  they  were  discussing  the  dis 
appearance  of  the  stocking — little  Grace  realized 
in  her  child's  heart  the  emotions  of  one  who  had 
lived  long  in  the  world.  She  had  come  suddenly 
into  a  knowledge  of  deceit  and  wrong-doing  for 
the  sake  of  her  own  selfish  ends  which  aged  her, 
226 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

poor  child!  She  lay  awake  a  long  time,  and 
was  very  unhappy  and  at  the  same  time  de 
fiant.  Then  she  became  so  sleepy  that  her  un- 
happiness  no  longer  stung  her  into  wakefulness, 
and  she  fell  into  slumber.  She  awoke  early,  and 
lay  for  a  moment  in  her  usual  blissful  semi- 
consciousness  of  life,  which  was  hardly  more 
than  the  consciousness  of  a  rose.  Then  she  re 
membered.  It  was  Christmas  morning.  There 
would  be  no  stocking  hanging  for  her  beside 
the  chimney-place.  There  might,  indeed,  be 
a  bundle  of  sticks,  as  Minnie  Anderson  had 
prophesied,  for  where  was  there  another  such 
naughty  girl  as  she  ?  But  what  else  could  there 
be?  It  was  a  woful  face  which  looked  up  at 
Grace  Maybe  when  she  came  in  and  wished  her 
one  darling  a  merry  Christmas  and  kissed  her. 

"Why,  sweetheart,"  she  said,  lovingly,  "how 
has  it  happened  that  you  have  not  been  up 
before  now,  and  down-stairs  to  see  what  Santa 
Claus  has  brought  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  murmured  little  Grace. 

Her  mother  regarded  her  anxiously.  "Why, 
darling,  what  is  it?"  she  cried.  "Don't  you 
feel  well?" 

Little  Grace's  father  was  standing  in  the 
doorway  by  that  time,  and  looking  concerned. 
227 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"Had  I  better  go  for  the  doctor?"  he  said. 
"What  ails  her,  Grace?" 

"I  don't  know.  Tell  mother  what  ails  you, 
mother's  precious  lamb." 

Then  little  Grace  began  to  cry  as  she  had 
never  cried  before,  shedding  such  tears  as  she 
had  never  shed  before:  the  tears  which  came 
from  the  horror  of  wickedness  discovered  in 
one's  own  heart.  Grace  Maybe  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  She  and  Joe  looked  at  each  other 
in  dismay,  and  Joe  asked  again  if  he  had  not 
better  go  for  the  doctor. 

Finally  Grace  soothed  little  Grace  after  a 
fashion,  gave  her  her  bath,  brushed  her  hair, 
and  tied  it  with  a  red  and  green  ribbon  because 
it  was  Christmas  Day,  and  fastened  her  em 
broidered  red  dress.  Then  little  Grace  was  led 
down-stairs.  Her  father  and  mother  could  not 
imagine  why  she  hung  back  and  seemed  to 
dread  to  go.  But  they  were  still  more  aghast 
when  little  Grace  gave  a  shrill  cry  of  terror  at 
the  sight  of  the  stocking  stuffed  bulgingly 
and  tipped  with  a  sprig  of  holly.  How  in  the 
world  had  it  happened  ?  Her  Christmas  stock 
ing  was  up-stairs  at  the  very  bottom  of  her 
doll's  trunk,  and  yet  it  was  here!  It  was  too 
much  for  little  Grace,  who  was  a  nervous, 
228 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

imaginative  child.  She  turned  so  pale  that  her 
mother  laid  her  on  the  divan,  and  Joe,  after 
calling  his  brother,  rushed  for  the  doctor. 
Little  Grace  did  not  faint  away,  but  she  began 
to  weep  again,  and  looked  so  pale  and  frightened 
that  it  was  heartbreaking,  especially  on  Christ 
mas  morning.  Her  uncle  Oliver  stood  beside 
her  mother,  and  looked  at  her. 

"What  on  earth  ails  her?"  said  he.  "Com 
ing  down  with  the  measles  ?" 

"Of  course  not,  Oliver.  She  had  them  only 
last  summer." 

"Maybe  it's  scarlet  fever,  then,"  suggested 
Oliver,  cheerfully. 

"Oh  dear,  I  hope  not,"  moaned  Grace. 
"It  isn't  around  here." 

"Sometimes  there  are  isolated  cases,  I've 
heard,"  said  Oliver,  wisely.  "Seems  to  me 
her  hands  feel  rather  too  warm." 

"It  can't  be,"  almost  sobbed  little  Grace's 
mother.  "Does  your  head  ache,  darling? 
Where  do  you  feel  bad,  sweetheart?" 

"I  don't  know,"  panted  little  Grace,  and 
indeed  she  did  not  know,  for  this  world-old 
pain  was  quite  new  to  her. 

Oliver  took  the  stocking  down,  and  he 
and  little  Grace's  mother  tried  to  divert  her 
229 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

with  the  contents,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  pay 
any  attention.     Then  the  doctor  came  with  Joe. 

"I  have  been  trying  to  have  her  notice  her 
Christmas  presents,"  Grace  said,  "but  she 
seems  to  be  all  upset  over  them.  See  if  she 
is  feverish,  doctor." 

The  doctor,  who  was  quite  old  and  very 
Stout,  breathed  wheezily  and  felt  little  Grace's 
pulse,  with  spectacled  eyes  upon  his  big  gold 
watch.  Little  Grace  grew  paler.  She  had  a 
terrified  conviction  that  the  doctor  and  his 
watch  between  them  would  surely  find  out 
what  the  real  trouble  was.  The  doctor's  first 
words  confirmed  her.  He  turned  and  looked 
sharply  at  her  mother,  then  at  her  father. 

"Has  this  child  had  any  shock  to  her  nerves 
lately?"  he  asked. 

Grace  Maybe  gasped,  and  so  did  Joe. 

"Why,  not  that  we  know  of,"  replied  Grace, 
and  Joe  echoed  his  wife. 

"Not  that  we  know  of,"  said  he. 

Then  the  doctor  turned  his  sharp  eyes  upon 
little  Grace.  "Anything  scared  you  lately?" 
said  he.  "Seen  a  mouse  or  anything?" 

"No,  thir,"  answered  little  Grace,  feebly. 

"Is  it  scarlet  fever,  doctor?"  asked  Uncle 
Oliver. 

230 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

"Scarlet  fiddlesticks,"  replied  the  doctor, 
shortly.  "This  child  has  seen  a  bugaboo. 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  her.  She 
is  one  of  the  kind  of  children  who  see  bug 
aboos.  It  is  time  you  stopped  seeing  buga 
boos,"  he  said  to  little  Grace  directly,  and 
she  trembled  and  said,  "Yeth,  thir." 

"Mind  you  do,"  said  the  doctor.  "The 
very  best  thing  you  can  do  if  she  sees  an 
other,"  he  told  little  Grace's  mother,  "is  to 
give  that  child  a  good  dose  of  castor-oil  with 
out  any  lemon  to  take  the  taste  out,  and  with 
out  any  candy  afterward.  Sometimes  castor- 
oil  works  like  a  charm.  It  drives  away  a 
bugaboo  better  than  anything  else."  The 
doctor's  mouth,  although  his  tone  was  very 
stern,  twitched  at  the  corners,  and  his  eyes 
twinkled.  However,  out  in  the  hall,  with  the 
library  door  closed,  he  spoke  seriously  to  little 
Grace's  parents.  ' '  She  is  a  very  peculiar  child," 
said  the  doctor,  and  Joe  and  Grace  looked 
rather  proud,  also  alarmed. 

"She  is  nervous  and  sensitive  to  a  very 
marked  degree,"  said  the  doctor.  "It  seems 
absurd,  but  has  she  anything  on  her  mind?" 

Then  Joe  and  Grace  stared. 

"Anything  on  her  mind?"  said  Joe. 
231 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

" Anything  on  that  blessed  child's  mind?" 
said  Grace. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "Sometimes 
children,  especially  children  of  her  type,  get 
queer  fancies  into  their  heads,"  he  said.  "Keep 
her  quiet.  Don't  attempt  to  force  even  her 
Christmas  presents  upon  her  if  she  seems  dis 
turbed.  Keep  her  quiet,  and  the  castor-oil 
won't  do  any  harm,  anyway." 

Events  developed  rapidly  that  Christmas 
Day.  Suddenly  Uncle  Oliver  became  aware  of 
the  true  significance  of  the  situation.  It 
was  after  luncheon.  The  Christmas  dinner 
was  to  be  eaten  at  seven  o'clock.  Grace  had 
taken  little  Grace  up-stairs,  and  was  trying 
to  divert  her  by  reading  a  story.  Joe  and  his 
brother  were  alone  in  the  library,  when  Oliver 
turned  and  said : 

"Great  Scott!     Joe,   you  don't  think—" 

"No,  old  man,  I  don't  think t"  Joe  cried, 
hotly,  but  he  colored.. 

"Then  you  are  trying  not  to  think,  you 
and  Grace.  You  can't  deny  that.  Why,  Joe, 
Flora!  Flora!  the  thing  is  monstrous!" 

"Of  course  it  is.     We  don't—" 

"But  you  are  trying  not  to.  Flora  was 
alone  in  the  room  with  that  miserable  stock- 
232 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

ing  when  Grace  went  up-stairs.  You  and 
Grace  have  let  that  much  out,  and — "  Oliver 
jumped  up  and  began  pacing  the  room. 

"Now,  see  here,  Oliver,"  Joe  said.  "We 
might  just  as  well  talk  this  over  reasonably, 
now  that  you  have  begun.  Neither  Grace 
nor  I  actually  thinks  Flora  took  that  stocking, 
and,  what  is  more,  we  never  shall  think  so, 
but  here  are  the  facts."  Then  Joe  told  in  a 
few  words  the  story  of  Flora,  Annie,  and  the 
fur-lined  cloak. 

"You  do  think  so,  you  and  Grace!"  Oliver 
said,  furiously. 

"I  tell  you,  Oliver,  we  don't  think  so." 

"Everything  points  that  way.  You  do 
think  so.  Flora  shall  not  come  here  for 
Christmas  dinner."  (Flora  and  Annie  had 
been  invited  to  dinner.)  "I  will  go  straight 
over  and  tell  her  not  to  come.  She  shall  not 
enter  a  house  where  she  has  been  so  insulted, 
not  while  I  have  any  influence  with  her." 

Then  Oliver  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and 
thrust  himself  into  his  coat,  and  strode  down 
the  snowy  road.  Grace  heard  the  commo 
tion  and  came  running  down  to  the  library, 
and  Joe  told  her  what  had  happened.  Grace 
began  to  cry. 

*6  233 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

"It  is  perfectly  awful,"  she  said.  "I  never 
knew  such  an  awful  Christmas.  Of  course, 
poor  dear  Flora  didn't  take  that  stocking." 

"I  wouldn't  believe  it  if  I  saw  her  with  it," 
declared  Joe. 

"Neither  would  I.  But  she  is  sure  to  feel 
that  we  do  suspect  her,  and  Oliver  will  only 
make  a  bad  matter  worse — he  is  so  hot-head 
ed — and  Flora  and  Annie  won't  come  to  din 
ner,  and  little  Grace  scares  me,  she  acts  so 
strange.  But  I  simply  will  not  give  that  dear 
child  castor-oil.  I  don't  care  what  the  doctor 
said.  He  is  a  brute." 

"How  does  little  Grace  seem  now?"  asked 
Joe,  anxiously. 

"She  is  just  as  pale  as  can  be,  and  you 
know  she  wouldn't  eat  any  luncheon,  and  she 
acts  scared  whenever  I  say  anything  about 
her  Christmas  presents,  and  every  now  and 
then  she  begins  to  cry,  and  she  won't  tell  me 
what  the  matter  is."  Poor  Grace  began  to 
weep  herself.  "I  never  saw  such  an  awful 
Christmas,"  she  said.  "Oh,  Joe,  what  do  you 
think  of  it  all?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Joe  replied,  gloomily. 
"But  don't  you  cry  and  make  yourself  ill, 
dear." 

234 


HER  CHRISTMAS 

"Flora  will  never  set  her  foot  in  this  house 
again,"  sobbed  Grace,  "after  Oliver  tells  her. 
Oh,  I  wish  he  had  stayed  at  home!  She  will 
never  come  here  again,  and  then  when  Oliver 
marries  her  he  will  never  come.  It  is  per 
fectly  dreadful." 

"You  go  too  fast,  dear,"  said  Joe,  consol 
ingly.  "Perhaps  she  will  come.  Flora  is 
very  sensible." 

"No,  she  will  not,"  sobbed  Grace. 

But  Grace  was  wrong.  At  half -past  six 
Flora,  Oliver,  and  little  Annie  appeared.  Flora 
kissed  Grace  warmly.  Then  she  laughed,  al 
though  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Grace  darling,"  said  Flora,  "I  know  just 
how  queer  this  whole  affair  looks,  but  I  do 
know  that  neither  you  nor  Joe,  after  know 
ing  me  all  these  years,  can  possibly  think — " 

"Flora,"  said  Joe,  with  a  great  sigh  of 
relief,  "you  are  the  most  sensible  girl  I  ever 
knew  in  my  whole  life." 

As  for  Grace,  she  hugged  and  kissed  Flora, 
and  she  hugged  and  kissed  Annie,  who  was 
a  blonde  morsel  of  a  girl  in  a  white  coat  and 
white  leggings  and  a  white  hood,  with  one 
yellow  curl  carefully  tucked  outside  on  either 
cheek. 

235 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

But  Oliver  still  looked  sulky.  "Well,  Flora 
has  talked  me  over,"  he  said,  "and  I  suppose 
she  is  right.  You  can't  possibly  suspect  her." 

"Of  course  we  can't,"  came  in  an  emphatic 
duet  from  Grace  and  Joe. 

"But,"  Oliver  went  on,  "all  the  same  I 
don't  like  such  mysteries,  and  I  want  to  know 
what  did  become  of  that  stocking.  I  want 
this  cleared  up." 

They  had  all  been  in  the  hall,  talking,  and 
now  a  weak  little  voice  came  from  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  "Mamma!" 

Grace  turned  quickly.  "What  is  it,  dar 
ling?"  she  asked.  "The  poor  child  has  been 
so  sick  all  day  we  had  to  call  in  the  doctor," 
she  explained  hurriedly  to  Flora,  then  went 
up-stairs,  calling  anxiously  all  the  way:  "What 
is  it,  precious?  Don't  you  feel  well?" 

The  others  went  into  the  library.  They 
heard  a  door  close  overhead,  then  an  excla 
mation,  then  a  sound  of  sobbing. 

"I  should  think  everybody  had  lost  their 
wits  this  particular  Christmas,"  Oliver  said, 
irritably.  "What  on  earth  is  the  matter 
now?" 

"Don't,  Oliver  dear,"  said  Flora.  "Perhaps 
the  poor  child  is  sick." 

236 


WHERE      DID      THAT      STOCKING      COME      FROM?"      GASPED      JOE 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

"No  more  sick  than  I  am,"  said  Oliver. 
"She  is  fretting  about  something." 

Flora  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and 
called  to  know  if  she  could  do  anything;  and 
Grace's  voice,  which  sounded  excited  and  agi 
tated,  replied,  "No,  dear;  little  Grace  and  I 
are  coming  right  down." 

Flora  removed  Annie's  coat  and  leggings 
and  hood,  and  she  appeared  in  a  white  em 
broidered  frock,  with  a  big  blue  bow  on  the 
top  of  her  yellow  head.  Annie  sat  down  obe 
diently  and  remained  very  quiet,  as  did  they 
all.  Everybody  in  the  room  had  a  premoni 
tion  of  an  approaching  sensation.  Presently 
it  arrived.  Grace  Maybe  entered,  and  after 
her  little  Grace  in  her  red  Christmas  frock 
with  her  red  and  green  bow  on  her  brown 
head,  and  she  carried  in  each  hand  a  well- 
filled  stocking.  Everybody  except  Annie,  who 
sat  still  and  smiled  innocently,  sprang  up 
and  stared.  "What — "  began  Oliver. 

"Where  did  that  stocking  come  from?" 
gasped  Joe. 

"Tell  them,  little  Grace,"  said  Grace,  and 
she  patted  the  brown  head  with  infinite  ten 
derness  and  pity. 

Then  little  Grace  told  her  story  with  her 
237 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

charming  lisp.  When  she  had  finished,  her 
mother  said:  "And  now  little  Grace  is  very 
sorry  that  she  did  such  a  naughty  thing  as  to 
come  down-stairs  and  take  her  own  Christ 
mas  stocking  before  Christmas  morning  and 
make  everybody  so  much  trouble,  aren't  you, 
dear?" 

"Yeth,  'm,"  replied  little  Grace.  Her  eyes 
were  still  red  with  tears,  although  they  had 
been  well  bathed  with  cold  water,  but  her  lips 
were  smiling  happily. 

Joe  stood  staring,  his  face  in  a  broad  grin. 
"Poor  little  duck!  So  she  thought  Santa 
Claus  wasn't  going  to  give  her  anything  this 
year,  and  planned  to  get  ahead  of  him?" 
said  he. 

"Hush,  Joe,  do,"  whispered  Grace. 

Oliver  stood  looking  out  of  the  window 
over  the  geranium  plants,  and  he  was  shak 
ing  with  subdued  laughter.  Flora  was  beside 
him,  her  hand  on  his  arm.  She  also  was 
laughing  quietly.  Annie  sat  and  smiled.  She 
smiled  more  when  little  Grace  gave  her  the 
second  Christmas  stocking. 

"Thith  ith  for  you,  becauth  Thanta  Clauth 
did  not  mean  to  give  me  more  than  one,"  said 
she. 

238 


HER   CHRISTMAS 

There  was  an  irrepressible  chuckle  from 
Oliver. 

"Oliver,"  said  Grace,  "why  don't  you  and 
Flora  go  into  the  parlor  and  let  the  children 
have  this  room  to  play  in?  I  have  to  go  out 
and  see  about  dinner,  and  I  want  Joe  to  take 
the  turkey  out  of  the  oven.  I  am  afraid  Maggie 
will  drop  it.  She  has  a  lame  arm." 

Left  alone  in  the  library,  the  two  small  girls 
sat  on  the  floor  and  explored  their  stockings. 

"Did  you  think  you  wouldn't  have  any 
presents?"  asked  Annie,  in  the  softest  of  voices. 

"Yeth,"  replied  little  Grace.  Then  she 
looked  wistfully  at  Annie.  "If  I  tell  you 
something,  won't  you  ever  tell,  honetht?"  she 
said. 

"No,  I  never  will,"  said  Annie,  surveying 
her  with  great  blue  eyes. 

"I  hadn't  ever  been  real  naughty  before, 
and  that  scared  me,"  whispered  little  Grace; 
"but  that  wathen't  all.  You  won't  ever  tell, 
will  you?" 

Annie  nodded  emphatically. 

' '  When  I  thaw  those  two  stockings  I  thought 

Thanta  Clauth  wath  crathy,"  whispered  little 

Grace,  "but  now  I've  found  out  there  ithen't 

any  Thanta  Clauth .    He  'th  just  your  own  folks. '  * 

239 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

"I've  known  that  ever  since  I  was  born," 
said  Annie,  and  she  smiled  a  smile  full  of  the 
wisdom  of  innocence  at  the  other  little  girl. 

"I  am  thorry  I  didn't  alwath  know  he  wath 
my  folks,"  said  little  Grace,  "becauth  if  he 
wath  there  wathen't  any  need  for  me  to  take 
the  stocking." 


OLD    WOMAN     MAGOUN 


OLD   WOMAN   MAGOUN 

THE  hamlet  of  Barry's  Ford  is  situated  in 
a  sort  of  high  valley  among  the  moun 
tains.  Below  it  the  hills  lie  in  moveless  curves 
like  a  petrified  ocean;  above  it  they  rise  in 
green-cresting  waves  which  never  break.  It  is 
Barry's  Ford  because  at  one  time  the  Barry 
family  was  the  most  important  in  the  place; 
and  Ford  because  just  at  the  beginning  of  the 
hamlet  the  little  turbulent  Barry  River  is 
fordable.  There  is,  however,  now  a  rude  bridge 
across  the  river. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  was  largely  instrumental 
in  bringing  the  bridge  to  pass.  She  haunted  the 
miserable  little  grocery,  wherein  whiskey  and 
hands  of  tobacco  were  the  most  salient  features 
of  the  stock  in  trade,  and  she  talked  much. 
She  would  elbow  herself  into  the  midst  of  a 
knot  of  idlers  and  talk. 
243 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"That  bridge  ought  to  be  built  this  very  sum 
mer,"  said  Old  Woman  Magoun.  She  spread 
her  strong  arms  like  wings,  and  sent  the  loafers, 
half  laughing,  half  angry,  flying  in  every  direc 
tion.  "If  I  were  a  man"  said  she,  "I'd  go  out 
this  very  minute  and  lay  the  fust  log.  If  I 
were  a  passel  of  lazy  men  layin'  round,  I'd 
start  up  for  once  in  my  life,  I  would."  The 
men  cowered  visibly — all  except  Nelson  Barry; 
he  swore  under  his  breath  and  strode  over  to 
the  counter. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  looked  after  him  ma 
jestically.  "You  can  cuss  all  you  want  to, 
Nelson  Barry,"  said  she;  "I  ain't  afraid  of  you. 
I  don't  expect  you  to  lay  ary  log  of  the  bridge, 
but  I'm  goin'  to  have  it  built  this  very  summer." 
She  did.  The  weakness  of  the  masculine  element 
in  Barry's  Ford  was  laid  low  before  such  stren 
uous  feminine  assertion. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  and  some  other  women 
planned  a  treat — two  sucking  pigs,  and  pies, 
and  sweet  cake — for  a  reward  after  the  bridge 
should  be  finished.  They  even  viewed  leniently 
the  increased  consumption  of  ardent  spirits. 

"It  seems  queer  to  me,"  Old  Woman  Magoun 
said  to  Sally  Jinks,  "that  men  can't  do  nothin' 
without  havin'  to  drink  and  chew  to  keep  their 
244 


MEN      IS      DIFFERENT."      SAID      SALLY      JINKS 


OLD   WOMAN   MAGOUN 

sperits  up.  Lord!  I've  worked  all  my  life  and 
never  done  nuther." 

"Men  is  different,"  said  Sally  Jinks. 

1  'Yes,  they  be,"  assented  Old  Woman  Ma- 
goun,  with  open  contempt. 

The  two  women  sat  on  a  bench  in  front  of 
Old  Woman  Magoun's  house,  and  little  Lily 
Barry,  her  granddaughter,  sat  holding  her  doll 
on  a  small  mossy  stone  near  by.  From  where 
they  sat  they  could  see  the  men  at  work  on  the 
new  bridge.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the  work. 

Lily  clasped  her  doll — a  poor  old  rag  thing — 
close  to  her  childish  bosom,  like  a  little  mother, 
and  her  face,  round  which  curled  her  long  yellow 

,ir,  was  fixed  upon  the  men  at  work.  Little 
-;1y  had  never  been  allowed  to  run  with  the 
^r  children  of  Barry's  Ford.  Her  grand- 
nK  ler  had  taught  her  everything  she  knew — 
which  was  not  much,  but  tending  at  least  to  a 
certain  measure  of  spiritual  growth  —  for  she, 
as  it  were,  poured  the  goodness  of  her  own  soul 
into  this  little  receptive  vase  of  another.  Lily 
was  firmly  grounded  in  her  knowledge  that  it 
was  wrong  to  lie  or  steal  or  disobey  her  grand 
mother.  She  had  also  learned  that  one  should 
be  very  industrious.  It  was  seldom  that  Lily 
sat  idly  holding  her  doll-baby,  but  this  was  a 
245 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

holiday  because  of  the  bridge.  She  looked  only 
a  child,  although  she  was  nearly  fourteen; 
her  mother  had  been  married  at  sixteen.  That 
is,  Old  Woman  Magoun  said  that  her  daughter, 
Lily's  mother,  had  married  at  sixteen;  there 
had  been  rumors,  but  no  one  had  dared  openly 
gainsay  the  old  woman.  She  said  that  her 
daughter  had  married  Nelson  Barry,  and  he 
had  deserted  her.  She  had  lived  in  her  mother's 
house,  and  Lily  had  been  born  there,  and  she 
had  died  when  the  baby  was  only  a  week  old. 
Lily's  father,  Nelson  Barry,  was  the  fairly 
dangerous  degenerate  of  a  good  old  family. 
Nelson's  father  before  him  had  been  bad. 
He  was  now  the  last  of  the  family,  with  the 
exception  of  a  sister  of  feeble  intellect,  with 
whom  he  lived  in  the  old  Barry  house.  He  was 
a  middle-aged  man,  still  handsome.  The  shift 
less  population  of  Barry's  Ford  looked  up  to  him 
as  to  an  evil  deity.  They  wondered  how  Old 
Woman  Magoun  dared  brave  him  as  she  did. 
But  Old  Woman  Magoun  had  within  her  a 
mighty  sense  of  reliance  upon  herself  as  being 
on  the  right  track  in  the  midst  of  a  maze  of  evil, 
which  gave  her  courage.  Nelson  Barry  had 
manifested  no  interest  whatever  in  his  daugh 
ter.  Lily  seldom  saw  her  father.  She  did  not 
246 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

often  go  to  the  store  which  was  his  favorite 
haunt.  Her  grandmother  took  care  that  she 
should  not  do  so. 

However,  that  afternoon  she  departed  from 
her  usual  custom  and  sent  Lily  to  the  store. 

She  came  in  from  the  kitchen,  whither  she 
had  been  to  baste  the  roasting  pig.  " There's 
no  use  talkin',"  said  she,  ''I've  got  to  have  some 
more  salt.  I've  jest  used  the  very  last  I  had 
to  dredge  over  that  pig.  I've  got  to  go  to  the 
store." 

Sally  Jinks  looked  at  Lily.  "Why  don't 
you  send  her?"  she  asked. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  gazed  irresolutely  at 
the  girl.  She  was  herself  very  tired.  It  did 
not  seem  to  her  that  she  could  drag  herself  up 
the  dusty  hill  to  the  store.  She  glanced  with 
covert  resentment  at  Sally  Jinks.  She  thought 
that  she  might  offer  to  go.  But  Sally  Jinks 
said  again,  "Why  don't  you  let  her  go?"  and 
looked  with  a  languid  eye  at  Lily  holding  her 
doll  on  the  stone. 

Lily  was  watching  the  men  at  work  on  the 
bridge,  with  her  childish  delight  in  a  spectacle  of 
any  kind,  when  her  grandmother  addressed  her. 

"Guess  I'll  let  you  go  down  to  the  store  an' 
git  some  salt,  Lily,"  said  she. 
247 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

The  girl  turned  uncomprehending  eyes  upon 
her  grandmother  at  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
She  had  been  filled  with  one  of  the  innocent 
reveries  of  childhood.  Lily  had  in  her  the 
making  of  an  artist  or  a  poet.  Her  prolonged 
childhood  went  to  prove  it,  and  also  her  retro 
spective  eyes,  as  clear  and  blue  as  blue  light 
itself,  which  seemed  to  see  past  all  that  she 
looked  upon.  She  had  not  come  of  the  old 
Barry  family  for  nothing.  The  best  of  the 
strain  was  in  her,  along  with  the  splendid 
stanchness  in  humble  lines  which  she  had 
acquired  from  her  grandmother. 

"Put  on  your  hat,"  said  Old  Woman  Ma- 
goun;  "the  sun  is  hot,  and  you  might  git  a  head 
ache."  She  called  the  girl  to  her,  and  put  back 
the  shower  of  fair  curls  under  the  rubber  band 
which  confined  the  hat.  She  gave  Lily  some 
money,  and  watched  her  knot  it  into  a  corner 
of  her  little  cotton  handkerchief.  "Be  careful 
you  don't  lose  it,"  said  she,  "and  don't  stop 
to  talk  to  anybody,  for  I  am  in  a  hurry  for  that 
salt.  Of  course,  if  anybody  speaks  to  you 
answer  them  polite,  and  then  come  right 
along." 

Lily  started,  her  pocket-handkerchief  weight 
ed  with  the  small  silver  dangling  from  one 
248 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

hand,  and  her  rag  doll  carried  over  her  shoulder 
like  a  baby.  The  absurd  travesty  of  a  face 
peeped  forth  from  Lily's  yellow  curls.  Sally 
Jinks  looked  after  her  with  a  sniff. 

"She  ain't  goin'  to  carry  that  rag  doll  to  the 
store?"  said  she. 

"She  likes  to,"  replied  Old  Woman  Magoun, 
in  a  half-shamed  yet  defiantly  extenuating 
voice. 

"Some  girls  at  her  age  is  thinkin'  about 
beaux  instead  of  rag  dolls,"  said  Sally  Jinks. 

The  grandmother  bristled,  "Lily  ain't  big 
nor  old  for  her  age,"  said  she.  "I  ain't  in  any 
hurry  to  have  her  git  married.  She  ain't  none 
too  strong." 

"She's  got  a  good  color,"  said  Sally  Jinks.' 
She  was  crocheting  white  cotton  lace,  making 
her  thick  fingers  fly.  She  really  knew  how  to 
do  scarcely  anything  except  to  crochet  that 
coarse  lace;  somehow  her  heavy  brain  or  her 
fingers  had  mastered  that. 

"I  know  she's  got  a  beautiful  color,"  replied 
Old  Woman  Magoun,  with  an  odd  mixture  of 
pride  and  anxiety,  "but  it  comes  an'  goes." 

"I've  heard  that  was  a  bad  sign,"  remarked 
Sally  Jinks,  loosening  some  thread  from  her 
spool. 

17  249 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  grandmother.  "She's 
nothin'  but  a  baby,  though  she's  quicker  than 
most  to  learn." 

Lily  Barry  went  on  her  way  to  the  store. 
She  was  clad  in  a  scanty  short  frock  of  blue 
cotton;  her  hat  was  tipped  back,  forming  an 
oval  frame  for  her  innocent  face.  She  was  very 
small,  and  walked  like  a  child,  with  the  clap- 
clap  of  little  feet  of  babyhood.  She  might 
have  been  considered,  from  her  looks,  under 
ten. 

Presently  she  heard  footsteps  behind  her; 
she  turned  around  a  little  timidly  to  see  who 
was  coming.  When  she  saw  a  handsome,  well- 
dressed  man,  she  felt  reassured.  The  man 
came  alongside  and  glanced  down  carelessly  at 
first,  then  his  look  deepened.  He  smiled,  and 
Lily  saw  he  was  very  handsome  indeed,  and  that 
his  smile  was  not  only  reassuring  but  wonder 
fully  sweet  and  compelling. 

"Well,  little  one,"  said  the  man,  "where 
are  you  bound,  you  and  your  dolly?" 

"I  am  going  to  the  store  to  buy  some  salt 
for  grandma,"  replied  Lily,  in  her  sweet  treble. 
She  looked  up  in  the  man's  face,  and  he  fairly 
started  at  the  revelation  of  its  innocent  beauty. 
He  regulated  his  pace  by  hers,  and  the  two  went 
250 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

on  together.  The  man  did  not  speak  again  at 
once.  Lily  kept  glancing  timidly  up  at  him, 
and  every  time  that  she  did  so  the  man  smiled 
and  her  confidence  increased.  Presently  when 
the  man's  hand  grasped  her  little  childish  one 
hanging  by  her  side,  she  felt  a  complete  trust 
in  him.  Then  she  smiled  up  at  him.  She 
felt  glad  that  this  nice  man  had  come  along, 
for  just  here  the  road  was  lonely. 

After  a  while  the  man   spoke.     "What   is 
your  name,  little  one?"  he  asked,  caressingly. 

"Lily  Barry." 

The  man  started.     "What  is  your  father's 
name?" 

"Nelson  Barry,"  replied  Lily. 

The  man  whistled.     ' '  Is  your  mother  dead  ?" 
'"Yes,  sir." 

"How  old  are  you,  my  dear?" 

"Fourteen,"  replied  Lily. 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  surprise.     "As 
old  as  that?" 

Lily  suddenly  shrank  from  the  man.  She 
could  not  have  told  why.  She  pulled  her  little 
hand  from  his,  and  he  let  it  go  with  no  re 
monstrance.  She  clasped  both  her  arms  around 
her  rag  doll,  in  order  that  her  hand  should  not 
be  free  for  him  to  grasp  again. 
251 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

She  walked  a  little  farther  away  from  the 
man,  and  he  looked  amused. 

"You  still  play  with  your  doll?"  he  said,  in  a 
soft  voice. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Lily.  She  quickened  her 
pace  and  reached  the  store. 

When  Lily  entered  the  store,  Hiram  Gates, 
the  owner,  was  behind  the  counter.  The  only 
man  besides  in  the  store  was  Nelson  Barry. 
He  sat  tipping  his  chair  back  against  the  wall ; 
he  was  half  asleep,  and  his  handsome  face  was 
bristling  with  a  beard  of  several  days'  growth 
and  darkly  flushed.  He  opened  his  eyes  when 
Lily  entered,  the  strange  man  following.  He 
brought  his  chair  down  on  all  fours,  and  he 
looked  at  the  man — not  noticing  Lily  at  all — 
with  a  look  compounded  of  defiance  and  un 
easiness. 

"Hullo,  Jim!"  he  said. 

"Hullo,  old  man!"  returned  the  stranger. 

Lily  went  over  to  the  counter  and  asked  for 
the  salt,  in  her  pretty  little  voice.  When  she 
had  paid  for  it  and  was  crossing  the  store, 
Nelson  Barry  was  on  his  feet. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  Lily?  It  is  Lily,  isn't 
it?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Lily,  faintly. 
252 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

Her  father  bent  down  and,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  kissed  her,  and  the  whiskey  odor  of 
his  breath  came  into  her  face. 

Lily  involuntarily  started,  and  shrank  away 
from  him.  Then  she  rubbed  her  mouth  violent 
ly  with  her  little  cotton  handkerchief,  which  she 
held  gathered  up  with  the  rag  doll. 

"Damn  it  all!  I  believe  she  is  afraid  of  me," 
said  Nelson  Barry,  in  a  thick  voice. 

"Looks  a  little  like  it,"  said  the  other  man, 
laughing. 

"It's  that  damned  old  woman,"  said  Nelson 
Barry.  Then  he  smiled  again  at  Lily.  "I 
didn't  know  what  a  pretty  little  daughter  I  was 
blessed  with,"  said  he,  and  he  softly  stroked 
Lily's  pink  cheek  under  her  hat. 

Now  Lily  did  not  shrink  from  him.  Hered 
itary  instincts  and  nature  itself  were  asserting 
themselves  in  the  child's  innocent,  receptive 
breast. 

Nelson  Barry  looked  curiously  at  Lily.  ' '  How 
old  are  you,  anyway,  child?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  be  fourteen  in  September,"  replied  Lily. 

"But  you  still  play  with  your  doll?"  said 
Barry,  laughing  kindly  down  at  her. 

Lily  hugged  her  doll  more  tightly,  in  spite  of 
her  father's  kind  voice.  "Yes,  sir,"  she  replied. 
253 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Nelson  glanced  across  at  some  glass  jars  filled 
with  sticks  of  candy.  ''See  here,  little  Lily, 
do  you  like  candy?"  said  he. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Wait  a  minute." 

Lily  waited  while  her  father  went  over  to  the 
counter.  Soon  he  returned  with  a  package  of 
the  candy. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  are  going  to  carry  so 
much,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Suppose  you  throw 
away  your  doll?" 

Lily  gazed  at  her  father  and  hugged  the 
doll  tightly,  and  there  was  all  at  once  in  the 
child's  expression  something  mature.  It  be 
came  the  reproach  of  a  woman.  Nelson's  face 
sobered. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  Lily,"  he  said;  "keep  your 
doll.  Here,  I  guess  you  can  carry  this  candy 
under  your  arm." 

Lily  could  not  resist  the  candy.  She  obeyed 
Nelson's  instructions  for  carrying  it,  and  left 
the  store  laden.  -The  two  men  also  left,  and 
walked  in  the  opposite  direction,  talking  busily. 

When  Lily  reached  home,  her  grandmother, 
who  was  watching  for  her,  spied  at  once  the 
package  of  candy. 

"What's  that?"  she  asked,  sharply. 
254 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

"My  father  gave  it  to  me,"  answered  Lily, 
in  a  faltering  voice.  Sally  regarded  her  with 
something  like  alertness. 

" Your  father?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Where  did  you  see  him  ?" 

"In  the  store." 

"He  gave  you  this  candy?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  asked  me  how  old  I  was,  and — " 

"And  what?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Lily;  and  it  really 
seemed  to  her  that  she  did  not  know,  she  was 
so  frightened  and  bewildered  by  it  all,  and,  more 
than  anything  else,  by  her  grandmother's  face 
as  she  questioned  her. 

Old  Woman  Magoun's  face  was  that  of  one 
upon  whom  a  long-anticipated  blow  had  fallen. 
Sally  Jinks  gazed  at  her  with  a  sort  of  stupid 
alarm. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  continued  to  gaze  at  her 
grandchild  with  that  look  of  terrible  solicitude, 
as  if  she  saw  the  girl  in  the  clutch  of  a  tiger. 
"You  can't  remember  what  else  he  said?"  she 
asked,  fiercely,  and  the  child  began  to  whimper 
softly. 

255 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

4 '  No,  ma'am, "  she  sobbed.  ' '  I — don't  know, 
and—" 

"And  what?    Answer  me." 

'  *  There  was  another  man  there.  A  real  hand 
some  man." 

"Did  he  speak  to  you?"  asked  Old  Woman 
Magoun. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  he  walked  along  with  me  a 
piece,"  confessed  Lily,  with  a  sob  of  terror  and 
bewilderment. 

1 '  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?"  asked  Old  Woman 
Magoun,  with  a  sort  of  despair. 

Lily  told,  in  her  little,  faltering,  frightened 
voice,  all  of  the  conversation  which  she  could 
recall.  It  sounded  harmless  enough,  but  the 
look  of  the  realization  of  a  long-expected  blow 
never  left  her  grandmother's  face. 

The  sun  was  getting  low,  and  the  bridge  was 
nearing  completion.  Soon  the  workmen  would 
be  crowding  into  the  cabin  for  their  promised 
supper.  There  became  visible  in  the  distance, 
far  up  the  road,  the  heavily  plodding  figure  of  an 
other  woman  who  had  agreed  to  come  and  help. 
Old  Woman  Magoun  turned  again  to  Lily. 

"You  go  right  up-stairs  to  your  own  chamber 
now,"  said  she. 

"Good  land!  ain't  you  goin'  to  let  that  poor 
256 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

child  stay  up  and  see  the  fun?"   said  Sally 
Jinks. 

"You  jest  mind  your  own  business,"  said 
Old  Woman  Magoun,  forcibly,  and  Sally  Jinks 
shrank.  "You  go  right  up  there  now,  Lily,"  said 
the  grandmother,  in  a  softer  tone,  "and  grand 
ma  will  bring  you  up  a  nice  plate  of  supper." 

"When  be  you  goin'  to  let  that  girl  grow  up  ?" 
asked  Sally  Jinks,  when  Lily  had  disappeared. 

"She'll  grow  up  in  the  Lord's  good  time," 
replied  Old  Woman  Magoun,  and  there  was  in 
her  voice  something  both  sad  and  threatening. 
Sally  Jinks  again  shrank  a  little. 

Soon  the  workmen  came  flocking  noisily  into 
the  house.  Old  Woman  Magoun  and  her  two 
helpers  served  the  bountiful  supper.  Most  of 
the  men  had  drunk  as  much  as,  and  more  than, 
was  good  for  them,  and  Old  Woman  Magoun 
had  stipulated  that  there  was  to  be  no  drinking 
of  anything  except  coffee  during  supper. 

"I'll  git  you  as  good  a  meal  as  I  know  how," 
she  said,  "but  if  I  see  ary  one  of  you  drinkin'  a 
drop,  I'll  run  you  all  out.  If  you  want  any 
thing  to  drink,  you  can  go  up  to  the  store  after 
ward.  That's  the  place  for  you  to  go  to,  if 
you've  got  to  make  hogs  of  yourselves.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  have  no  hogs  in  my  house." 
257 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Old  Woman  Magoun  was  implicitly  obeyed. 
She  had  a  curious  authority  over  most  people 
when  she  chose  to  exercise  it.  When  the  sup 
per  was  in  full  swing,  she  quietly  stole  up-stairs 
and  carried  some  food  to  Lily.  She  found  the 
girl,  with  the  rag  doll  in  her  arms,  crouching 
by  the  window  in  her  little  rocking-chair — a 
relic  of  her  infancy,  which  she  still  used. 

"What  a  noise  they  are  makin',  grandma!" 
she  said,  in  a  terrified  whisper,  as  her  grand 
mother  placed  the  plate  before  her  on  a  chair. 

"They've  'most  all  of  'em  been  drinkin'. 
They  air  a  passel  of  hogs,"  replied  the  old 
woman. 

"Is  the  man  that  was  with — with  my  father 
down  there?"  asked  Lily,  in  a  timid  fashion. 
Then  she  fairly  cowered  before  the  look  in  her 
grandmother's  eyes. 

"No,  he  ain't;  and  what's  more,  he  never 
will  be  down  there  if  I  can  help  it,"  said  Old 
Woman  Magoun,  in  a  fierce  whisper.  "I  know 
who  he  is.  They  can't  cheat  me.  He's  one 
of  them  Willises — that  family  the  Barrys  mar 
ried  into.  They're  worse  than  the  Barrys,  ef 
they  have  got  money.  Eat  your  supper,  and 
put  him  out  of  your  mind,  child." 

It  was  after  Lily  was  asleep,  when  Old 
258 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

Woman  Magoun  was  alone,  clearing  away  her 
supper  dishes,  that  Lily's  father  came.  The 
door  was  closed,  and  he  knocked,  and  the  old 
woman  knew  at  once  who  was  there.  The 
sound  of  that  knock  meant  as  much  to  her  as 
the  whir  of  a  bomb  to  the  defender  of  a  fortress. 
She  opened  the  door,  and  Nelson  Barry  stood 
there. 

''Good-evening,  Mrs.  Magoun,"  he  said. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  stood  before  him,  filling 
up  the  doorway  with  her  firm  bulk. 

"Good -evening,  Mrs.  Magoun,"  said  Nelson 
Barry  again. 

"I  ain't  got  no  time  to  waste,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  harshly.  "I've  got  my  supper  dishes 
to  clean  up  after  them  men." 

She  stood  there  and  looked  at  him  as  she 
might  have  looked  at  a  rebellious  animal  which 
she  was  trying  to  tame.  The  man  laughed. 

"It's  no  use,"  said  he.  "You  know  me  of 
old.  No  human  being  can  turn  me  from  my 
way  when  I  am  once  started  in  it.  You  may 
as  well  let  me  come  in." 

Old  Woman  Magoun  entered  the  house,  and 
Barry  followed  her. 

Barry  began  without  any  preface.  "Where 
is  the  child?"  asked  he. 

259 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"Up-stairs.     She  has  gone  to  bed." 

"She  goes  to  bed  early." 

"Children  ought  to,"  returned  the  old  woman, 
polishing  a  plate. 

Barry  laughed.  "You  are  keeping  her  a 
child  a  long  while,"  he  remarked,  in  a  soft  voice 
which  had  a  sting  in  it. 

"She  is  a  child,"  returned  the  old  woman, 
defiantly. 

"Her  mother  was  only  three  years  older  when 
Lily  was  born." 

The  old  woman  made  a  sudden  motion  toward 
the  man  which  seemed  fairly  menacing.  Then 
she  turned  again  to  her  dish-washing. 

"I  want  her,"  said  Barry. 

"You  can't  have  her,"  replied  the  old  woman, 
in  a  still  stern  voice. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  yourself. 
You  have  always  acknowledged  that  she  was 
my  child." 

The  old  woman  continued  her  task,  but  her 
strong  back  heaved.  Barry  regarded  her  with 
an  entirely  pitiless  expression. 

4 '  I  am  going  to  have  the  girl,  that  is  the  long 
and  short  of  it,"  he  said,  "and  it  is  for  her  best 
good,  too.  You  are  a  fool,  or  you  would  see  it." 

"Her  best  good?"  muttered  the  old  woman. 
260 


OLD   WOMAN   MAGOUN 

"Yes,  her  best  good.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  with  her,  anyway  ?  The  girl  is  a  beauty, 
and  almost  a  woman  grown,  although  you  try 
to  make  out  that  she  is  a  baby.  You  can't  live 
forever." 

"The  Lord  will  take  care  of  her,"  replied  the 
old  woman,  and  again  she  turned  and  faced  him, 
and  her  expression  was  that  of  a  prophetess. 

"Very  well,  let  Him,"  said  Barry,  easily. 
"All  the  same  I'm  going  to  have  her,  and  I  tell 
you  it  is  for  her  best  good.  Jim  Willis  saw  her 
this  afternoon,  and — " 

Old  Woman  Magoun  looked  at  him.  "Jim 
Willis!"  she  fairly  shrieked. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"One  of  them  Willises!"  repeated  the  old 
woman,  and  this  time  her  voice  was  thick. 
It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  were  stricken  with 
paralysis.  She  did  not  enunciate  clearly. 

The  man  shrank  a  little.  "Now  what  is  the 
need  of  your  making  such  a  fuss?"  he  said.  "I 
will  take  her,  and  Isabel  will  look  out  for  her." 

"Your  half-witted  sister?"  said  Old  Woman 
Magoun. 

"Yes,  my  half-witted  sister.  She  knows 
more  than  you  think." 

"More  wickedness." 

261 


THE  WINNING   LADY 

"Perhaps.  Well,  a  knowledge  of  evil  is  a  use 
ful  thing.  How  are  you  going  to  avoid  evil  if 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  like  ?  My  sister  and 
I  will  take  care  of  my  daughter." 

The  old  woman  continued  to  look  at  the  man, 
but  his  eyes  never  fell.  Suddenly  her  gaze 
grew  inconceivably  keen.  It  was  as  if  she  saw 
through  all  externals. 

"I  know  what  it  is!"  she  cried.  "You  have 
been  playing  cards  and  you  lost,  and  this  is  the 
way  you  will  pay  him." 

Then  the  man's  face  reddened,  and  he  swore 
under  his  breath. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  the  old  woman;  and  she 
really  spoke  with  her  eyes  aloft  as  if  addressing 
something  outside  of  them  both.  Then  she 
turned  again  to  her  dish-washing. 

The  man  cast  a  dogged  look  at  her  back. 
"Well,  there  is  no  use  talking.  I  have  made 
up  my  mind,"  said  he,  "and  you  know  me  and 
what  that  means.  I  am  going  to  have  the 
girl." 

"When?"  said  the  old  woman,  without  turn 
ing  around. 

"Well,  I  am  willing  to  give  you  a  week. 
Put  her  clothes  in  good  order  before  she  comes." 

The  old  woman  made  no  reply.  She  con- 
262 


OLD   WOMAN   MAGOUN 

tinued    washing    dishes.     She    even    handled 
them  so  carefully  that  they  did  not  rattle. 

"You  understand,"  said  Barry.  "Have  her 
ready  a  week  from  to-day." 

"Yes,"  said  Old  Woman  Magoun,  "I  under 
stand." 

Nelson  Barry,  going  up  the  mountain  road, 
reflected  that  Old  Woman  Magoun  had  a  strong 
character,  that  she  understood  much  better 
than  her  sex  in  general  the  futility  of  withstand 
ing  the  inevitable. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  Jim  Willis  when  he  reached 
home,  "the  old  woman  did  not  make  such  a 
fuss  as  I  expected." 

"Are  you  going  to  have  the  girl?" 

"Yes;  a  week  from  to-day.  Look  here,  Jim; 
you've  got  to  stick  to  your  promise." 

' '  All  right, ' '  said  Willis.    ' '  Go  you  one  better. ' ' 

The  two  were  playing  at  cards  in  the  old 
parlor,  once  magnificent,  now  squalid,  of  the 
Barry  house.  Isabel,  the  half-witted  sister, 
entered,  bringing  some  glasses  on  a  tray. 
She  had  learned  with  her  feeble  intellect  some 
tricks,  like  a  dog.  One  of  them  was  the  mixing 
of  sundry  drinks.  She  set  the  tray  on  a  little 
stand  near  the  two  men,  and  watched  them 
with  her  silly  simper. 

263 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

" Clear  out  now  and  go  to  bed,"  her  brother 
said  to  her,  and  she  obeyed. 

Early  the  next  morning  Old  Woman  Magoun 
went  up  to  Lily's  little  sleeping-chamber,  and 
watched  her  a  second  as  she  lay  asleep,  with  her 
yellow  locks  spread  over  the  pillow.  Then  she 
spoke.  "Lily,"  said  she — "Lily,  wake  up.  I 
am  going  to  Greenham  across  the  new  bridge, 
and  you  can  go  with  me." 

Lily  immediately  sat  up  in  bed  and  smiled 
at  her  grandmother.  Her  eyes  were  still  misty, 
but  the  light  of  awakening  was  in  them. 

"Get  right  up,"  said  the  old  woman.  "You 
can  wear  your  new  dress  if  you  want  to." 

Lily  gurgled  with  pleasure  like  a  baby. 
"And  my  new  hat?"  asked  she. 

"I  don't  care." 

Old  Woman  Magoun  and  Lily  started  for 
Greenham  before  Barry  Ford,  which  kept  late 
hours,  was  fairly  awake.  It  was  three  miles  to 
Greenham.  The  old  woman  said  that,  since  the 
horse  was  a  little  lame,  they  would  walk.  It 
was  a  beautiful  morning,  with  a  diamond  radi 
ance  of  dew  over  everything.  Her  grand 
mother  had  curled  Lily's  hair  more  punctilious 
ly  than  usual.  The  little  face  peeped  like  a  rose 
out  of  two  rows  of  golden  spirals.  Lily  wore  her 
264 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

new  muslin  dress  with  a  pink  sash,  and  her  best 
hat  of  a  fine  white  straw  trimmed  with  a  wreath 
of  rosebuds;  also  the  neatest  black  open-work 
stockings  and  pretty  shoes.  She  even  had 
white  cotton  gloves.  When  they  set  out,  the 
old,  heavily  stepping  woman,  in  her  black  gown 
and  cape  and  bonnet,  looked  down  at  the  little 
pink  fluttering  figure.  Her  face  was  full  of  the 
tenderest  love  and  admiration,  and  yet  there 
was  something  terrible  about  it.  They  crossed 
the  new  bridge — a  primitive  structure  built  of 
logs  in  a  slovenly  fashion.  Old  Woman  Magoun 
pointed  to  a  gap. 

"Jest  see  that,"  said  she.  "That's  the  way 
men  work." 

"Men  ain't  very  nice,  be  they?"  said  Lily, 
in  her  sweet  little  voice. 

"No,  they  ain't,  take  them  all  together," 
replied  her  grandmother. 

"That  man  that  walked  to  the  store  with  me 
was  nicer  than  some,  I  guess,"  Lily  said,  in  a 
wishful  fashion.  Her  grandmother  reached 
down  and  took  the  child's  hand  in  its  small 
cotton  glove.  "You  hurt  me,  holding  my  hand 
so  tight,"  Lily  said  presently,  in  a  deprecatory 
little  voice. 

The  old  woman  loosened  her  grasp.  * '  Grand- 
18  265 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

ma  didn't  know  how  tight  she  was  holding 
your  hand,"  said  she.  "She  wouldn't  hurt 
you  for  no  thin',  except  it  was  to  save  your  life, 
or  somethin'  like  that."  She  spoke  with  an 
undertone  of  tremendous  meaning  which  the 
girl  was  too  childish  to  grasp.  They  walked 
along  the  country  road.  Just  before  they 
reached  Greenham  they  passed  a  stone  wall 
overgrown  with  blackberry- vines,  and,  an  un- 
sual  thing  in  that  vicinity,  a  lusty  spread  of 
deadly  nightshade  full  of  berries. 

"Those  berries  look  good  to  eat,  grandma," 
Lily  said. 

At  that  instant  the  old  woman's  face  be 
came  something  terrible  to  see.  "You  can't 
have  any  now,"  she  said,  and  hurried  Lily 
along. 

"They  look  real  nice,"  said  Lily. 

When  they  reached  Greenham,  Old  Woman 
Magoun  took  her  way  straight  to  the  most  pre 
tentious  house  there,  the  residence  of  the  lawyer, 
whose  name  was  Mason.  Old  Woman  Magoun 
bade  Lily  wait  in  the  yard  for  a  few  moments, 
and  Lily  ventured  to  seat  herself  on  a  bench 
beneath  an  oak-tree ;  then  she  watched  with  some 
wonder  her  grandmother  enter  the  lawyer's 
office  door  at  the  right  of  the  house.  Presently 
266 


OLD   WOMAN   MAGOUN 

the  lawyer's  wife  came  out  and  spoke  to  Lily 
under  the  tree.  She  had  in  her  hand  a  little 
tray  containing  a  plate  of  cake,  a  glass  of  milk, 
and  an  early  apple.  She  spoke  very  kindly  to 
Lily;  she  even  kissed  her,  and  offered  her  the 
tray  of  refreshments,  which  Lily  accepted  grate 
fully.  She  sat  eating,  with  Mrs.  Mason  watch 
ing  her,  when  Old  Woman  Magoun  came  out 
of  the  lawyer's  office  with  a  ghastly  face. 

''What  are  you  eatin'  ?"  she  asked  Lily, 
sharply.  ''Is  that  a  sour  apple?" 

"I  thought  she  might  be  hungry,"  said  the 
lawyer's  wife,  with  loving,  melancholy  eyes 
upon  the  girl. 

Lily  had  almost  finished  the  apple.  "It's 
real  sour,  but  I  like  it;  it's  real  nice,  grandma," 
she  said. 

"You  ain't  been  drinkin'  milk  with  a  sour 
apple?" 

"It  was  real  nice  milk,  grandma." 

"You  ought  never  to  have  drunk  milk  and 
eat  a  sour  apple,"  said  her  grandmother. 
"Your  stomach  was  all  out  of  order  this  morn- 
in',  an'  sour  apples  and  milk  is  always  apt  to 
hurt  anybody." 

"I  don't  know  but  they  are,"  Mrs.  Mason 
said,  apologetically,  as  she  stood  on  the  green 
267 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

lawn  with  her  lavender  muslin  sweeping  around 
her.  "I  am  real  sorry,  Mrs.  Magoun.  I  ought 
to  have  thought.  Let  me  get  some  soda  for  her. ' ' 

"Soda  never  agrees  with  her,"  replied  the 
old  woman,  in  a  harsh  voice.  "Come,"  she 
said  to  Lily,  "it's  time  we  were  goin'  home." 

After  Lily  and  her  grandmother  had  dis 
appeared  down  the  road,  Lawyer  Mason  came 
out  of  his  office  and  joined  his  wife,  who  had 
seated  herself  on  the  bench  beneath  the  tree. 
She  was  idle,  and  her  face  wore  the  expression 
of  those  who  review  joys  forever  past.  She 
had  lost  a  little  girl,  her  only  child,  years  ago, 
and  her  husband  always  knew  when  she  was 
thinking  about  her.  Lawyer  Mason  looked 
older  than  his  wife;  he  had  a  dry,  shrewd, 
slightly  one-sided  face. 

"What  do  you  think,  Maria  ?"  he  said.  "That 
old  woman  came  to  me  with  the  most  pressing 
entreaty  to  adopt  that  little  girl." 

"She  is  a  beautiful  little  girl,"  said  Mrs. 
Mason,  in  a  slightly  husky  voice. 

"Yes,  she  is  a  pretty  child,"  assented  the 
lawyer,  looking  pityingly  at  his  wife;  "but  it 
is  out  of  the  question,  my  dear.  Adopting  a 
child  is  a  serious  measure,  and  in  this  case  a 
child  who  comes  from  Barry's  Ford," 
268 


OLD    WOMAN    MAGOUN 

"But  the  grandmother  seems  a  very  good 
woman,"  said  Mrs.  Mason. 

"I  rather  think  she  is.  I  never  heard  a  word 
against  her.  But  the  father!  No,  Maria, 
we  cannot  take  a  child  with  Barry  blood  in  her 
veins.  The  stock  has  run  out;  it  is  vitiated 
physically  and  morally.  It  won't  do,  my 
dear." 

"Her  grandmother  had  her  dressed  up  as 
pretty  as  a  little  girl  could  be,"  said  Mrs.  Mason, 
and  this  time  the  tears  welled  into  her  faithful, 
wistful  eyes. 

"Well,  we  can't  help  that,"  said  the  lawyer, 
as  he  went  back  to  his  office. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  and  Lily  returned,  go 
ing  slowly  along  the  road  to  Barry's  Ford. 
When  they  came  to  the  stone  wall  where  the 
blackberry-vines  and  the  deadly  nightshade 
grew,  Lily  said  she  was  tired,  and  asked  if  she 
could  not  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes.  The 
strange  look  on  her  grandmother's  face  had 
deepened.  Now  and  then  Lily  glanced  at  her 
and  had  a  feeling  as  if  she  were  looking  at  a 
stranger. 

"Yes,  you  can  set  down  if  you  want  to,"  said 
Old  Woman  Magoun,  deeply  and  harshly. 

Lily  started  and  looked  at  her,  as  if  to  make 
269 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

sure  that  it  was  her  grandmother  who  spoke. 
Then  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  which  was  com 
paratively  free  of  the  vines. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  set  down,  grandma?" 
Lily  asked,  timidly. 

"No;  I  don't  want  to  get  into  that  mess," 
replied  her  grandmother.  "I  ain't  tired.  I'll 
stand  here." 

Lily  sat  still;  her  delicate  little  face  was 
flushed  with  heat.  She  extended  her  tiny  feet 
in  her  best  shoes  and  gazed  at  them.  ' '  My  shoes 
are  all  over  dust,"  said  she. 

"It  will  brush  off,"  said  her  grandmother, 
still  in  that  strange  voice. 

Lily  looked  around.  An  elm-tree  in  the  field 
behind  her  cast  a  spray  of  branches  over  her 
head;  a  little  cool  puff  of  wind  came  on  her  face. 
She  gazed  at  the  low  mountains  on  the  horizon, 
in  the  midst  of  which  she  lived,  and  she  sighed, 
for  no  reason  that  she  knew.  She  began  idly 
picking  at  the  blackberry- vines ;  there  were  no 
berries  on  them ;  then  she  put  her  little  fingers  on 
the  berries  of  the  deadly  nightshade.  "These 
look  like  nice  berries,"  she  said. 

Old  Woman  Magoun,  standing  stiff  and 
straight  in  the  road,  said  nothing. 

"They  look  good  to  eat,"  said  Lily. 
270 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

Old  Woman  Magoun  still  said  nothing,  but 
she  looked  up  into  the  ineffable  blue  of  the  sky, 
over  which  spread  at  intervals  great  white 
clouds  shaped  like  wings. 

Lily  picked  some  of  the  deadly  nightshade 
berries  and  ate  them.  "Why,  they  are  real 
sweet,"  said  she.  "They  are  nice."  She  picked 
some  more  and  ate  them. 

Presently  her  grandmother  spoke.  "Come," 
she  said,  "it  is  time  we  were  going.  I  guess  you 
have  set  long  enough." 

Lily  was  still  eating  the  berries  when  she 
slipped  down  from  the  wall  and  followed  her 
grandmother  obediently  up  the  road. 

Before  they  reached  home,  Lily  complained 
of  being  very  thirsty.  She  stopped  and  made 
a  little  cup  of  a  leaf  and  drank  long  at  a  moun 
tain  brook.  "I  am  dreadful  dry,  but  it  hurts 
me  to  swallow,"  she  said  to  her  grandmother 
when  she  stopped  drinking  and  joined  the  old 
woman  waiting  for  her  in  the  road.  Her 
grandmother's  face  seemed  strangely  dim  to  her. 
She  took  hold  of  Lily's  hand  as  they  went  on. 
"My  stomach  burns,"  said  Lily,  presently.  "I 
want  some  more  water." 

"There  is  another  brook  a  little  farther  on," 
said  Old  Woman  Magoun,  in  a  dull  voice. 

271 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

When  they  reached  that  brook,  Lily  stopped 
and  drank  again,  but  she  whimpered  a  little 
over  her  difficulty  in  swallowing.  ' '  My  stomach 
burns,  too,"  she  said,  walking  on,  "and  my 
throat  is  so  dry,  grandma."  Old  Woman 
Magoun  held  Lily's  hand  more  tightly.  "You 
hurt  me  holding  my  hand  so  tight,  grandma," 
said  Lily,  looking  up  at  her  grandmother,  whose 
face  she  seemed  to  see  through  a  mist,  and  the 
old  woman  loosened  her  grasp. 

When  at  last  they  reached  home,  Lily  was 
very  ill.  Old  Woman  Magoun  put  her  on  her 
own  bed  in  the  little  bedroom  out  of  the  kitchen. 
Lily  lay  there  and  moaned,  and  Sally  Jinks 
came  in. 

"Why,  what  ails  her?"  she  asked.  "She 
looks  feverish." 

Lily  unexpectedly  answered  for  herself.  "I 
ate  some  sour  apples  and  drank  some  milk," 
she  moaned. 

"Sour  apples  and  milk  are  dreadful  apt  to 
hurt  anybody,"  said  Sally  Jinks.  She  told 
several  people  on  her  way  home  that  Old 
Woman  Magoun  was  dreadful  careless  to  let 
Lily  eat  such  things. 

Meanwhile  Lily  grew  worse.  She  suffered 
cruelly  from  the  burning  in  her  stomach,  the 
272 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

vertigo,  and  the  deadly  nausea.  "I  am  so 
sick,  I  am  so  sick,  grandma,"  she  kept  moaning. 
She  could  no  longer  see  her  grandmother  as  she 
bent  over  her,  but  she  could  hear  her  talk. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  talked  as  Lily  had  never 
heard  her  talk  before,  as  nobody  had  ever 
heard  her  talk  before.  She  spoke  from  the 
depths  of  her  soul;  her  voice  was  as  tender  as 
the  coo  of  a  dove,  and  it  was  grand  and  exalted. 
"You'll  feel  better  very  soon,  little  Lily," 
said  she. 

"I  am  so  sick,  grandma." 

"You  will  feel  better  very  soon,  and  then — " 

"I  am  sick." 

"You  shall  go  to  a  beautiful  place." 

Lily  moaned. 

"You  shall  go  to  a  beautiful  place,"  the  old 
woman  went  on. 

"Where?"  asked  Lily,  groping  feebly  with 
her  cold  little  hands.  Then  she  moaned  again. 

"A  beautiful  place,  where  the  flowers  grow 
tall." 

"What  color?     Oh,  grandma,  I  am  so  sick." 

"A    blue    color,"    replied    the    old    woman. 

Blue  was  Lily's  favorite  color.     "A  beautiful 

blue  color,  and  as  tall  as  your  knees,  and  the 

flowers  always  stay  there,  and  they  never  fade." 

273 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"Not  if  you  pick  them,  grandma?    Oh!" 

"No,  not  if  you  pick  them;  they  never  fade, 
and  they  are  so  sweet  you  can  smell  them  a 
mile  off;  and  there  are  birds  that  sing,  and  all 
the  roads  have  gold  stones  in  them,  and  the 
stone  walls  are  made  of  gold." 

"Like  the  ring  grandpa  gave  you?  I  am  so 
sick,  grandma." 

"Yes,  gold  like  that.  And  all  the  houses  are 
built  of  silver  and  gold,  and  the  people  all  have 
wings,  so  when  they  get  tired  walking  they  can 
fly,  and—" 

"I  am  so  sick,  grandma." 

"And  all  the  dolls  are  alive,"  said  Old  Woman 
Magoun.  "Dolls  like  yours  can  run,  and  talk, 
and  love  you  back  again." 

Lily  had  her  poor  old  rag  doll  in  bed  with 
her,  clasped  close  to  her  agonized  little  heart. 
She  tried  very  hard  with  her  eyes,  whose  pupils 
were  so  dilated  that  they  looked  black,  to  see 
her  grandmother's  face  when  she  said  that,  but 
she  could  not.  "It  is  dark,"  she  moaned, 
feebly. 

"There  where  you  are  going  it  is  always 
light,"  said  the  grandmother,  "and  the  com 
monest  things  shine  like  that  breastpin  Mrs. 
Lawyer  Mason  had  on  to-day." 
274 


OLD   WOMAN    MAGOUN 

Lily  moaned  pitifully,  and  said  something 
incoherent.  Delirium  was  commencing.  Pres 
ently  she  sat  straight  up  in  bed  and  raved;  but 
even  then  her  grandmother's  wonderful  com 
pelling  voice  had  an  influence  over  her. 

"You  will  come  to  a  gate  with  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow,"  said  her  grandmother;  "and 
it  will  open,  and  you  will  go  right  in  and  walk 
up  the  gold  street,  and  cross  the  field  where  the 
blue  flowers  come  up  to  your  knees,  until  you 
find  your  mother,  and  she  will  take  you  home 
where  you  are  going  to  live.  She  has  a  little 
white  room  all  ready  for  you,  white  curtains  at 
the  windows,  and  a  little  white  looking-glass, 
and  when  you  look  in  it  you  will  see — " 

"What  will  I  see?     I  am  so  sick,  grandma." 

"You  will  see  a  face  like  yours,  only  it's  an 
angel's;  and  there  will  be  a  little  white  bed, 
and  you  can  lay  down  an'  rest." 

"Won't  I  be  sick,  grandma?"  asked  Lily. 
Then  she  moaned  and  babbled  wildly,  although 
she  seemed  to  understand  through  it  all  what 
her  grandmother  said. 

1  *  No ,  you  will  never  be  sick  any  more .  Talkin' 
about  sickness  won't  mean  anything  to  you." 

It  continued.  Lily  talked  on  wildly,  and  her 
grandmother's  great  voice  of  soothing  never 
275 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

ceased,  until  the  child  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  or 
what  resembled  sleep ;  but  she  lay  stiffly  in  that 
sleep,  and  a  candle  flashed  before  her  eyes  made 
no  impression  on  them. 

Then  it  was  that  Nelson  Barry  came.  Jim 
Willis  waited  outside  the  door.  When  Nelson 
entered  he  found  Old  Woman  Magoun  on  her 
knees  beside  the  bed,  weeping  with  dry  eyes 
and  a  might  of  agony  which  fairly  shook  Nelson 
Barry,  the  degenerate  of  a  fine  old  race. 

"Is  she  sick?"  he  asked,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

Old  Woman  Magoun  gave  another  terrible 
sob,  which  sounded  like  the  gasp  of  one  dying. 

"Sally  Jinks  said  that  Lily  was  sick  from 
eating  milk  and  sour  apples,"  said  Barry,  in  a 
tremulous  voice.  ' '  I  remember  that  her  mother 
was  very  sick  once  from  eating  them." 

Lily  lay  still,  and  her  grandmother  on  her 
knees  shook  with  her  terrible  sobs. 

Suddenly  Nelson  Barry  started.  "I  guess 
I  had  better  go  to  Greenham  for  a  doctor  if  she's 
as  bad  as  that,"  he  said.  He  went  close  to  the 
bed  and  looked  at  the  sick  child.  He  gave  a 
great  start.  Then  he  felt  of  her  hands  and 
reached  down  under  the  bedclothes  for  her  little 
feet.  "Her  hands  and  feet  are  like  ice,"  he 
cried  out.  "Good  God!  why  didn't  you  send 
276 


OLD   WOMAN   MAGOUN 

for   some   one — for  me — before?     Why,   she's 
dying;  she's  almost  gone!" 

Barry  rushed  out  and  spoke  to  Jim  Willis, 
who  turned  pale  and  came  in  and  stood  by  the 
bedside. 

"She's  almost  gone,"  he  said,  in  a  hushed 
whisper. 

"There's  no  use  going  for  the  doctor;  she'd 
be  dead  before  he  got  here,"  said  Nelson,  and  he 
stood  regarding  the  passing  child  with  a  strange, 
sad  face — unutterably  sad,  because  of  his  in 
capability  of  the  truest  sadness. 

"Poor  little  thing,  she's  past  suffering,  any 
how,"  said  the  other  man,  and  his  own  face 
also  was  sad  with  a  puzzled,  mystified  sadness. 

Lily  died  that  night.  There  was  quite  a 
commotion  in  Barry's  Ford  until  after  the 
funeral,  it  was  all  so  sudden,  and  then  every 
thing  went  on  as  usual.  Old  Woman  Magoun 
continued  to  live  as  she  had  done  before.  She 
supported  herself  by  the  produce  of  her  tiny 
farm ;  she  was  very  industrious,  but  people  said 
that  she  was  a  trifle  touched,  since  every  time 
she  went  over  the  log  bridge  with  her  eggs  or 
her  garden  vegetables  to  sell  in  Greenham,  she 
carried  with  her,  as  one  might  have  carried  an 
infant,  Lily's  old  rag  doll. 
277 


ELIZA    SAM 


ELIZA   SAM 


MV  neighbors  are  mostly  women.  There 
used  to  be  men  enough  years  ago,  when  I 
was  a  boy  and  a  young  man,  but  they  have  all 
died  out  or  moved  away.  Now  you  can  go  up 
and  down  the  street,  and  it's  nothing  but  women 
except  in  a  few  houses.  And  some  of  the  men 
that's  left  are  travelling  week  in  and  week  out, 
and  might  as  well  not  live  here.  And  some 
are  so  old  and  feeble,  like  old  man  Ames  and 
Abraham  Jones,  that  they  don't  count  for  much. 
Sometimes  when  I  think  of  it,  it  seems  to  me 
just  like  an  Indian  village  that  I've  read  about, 
when  the  men  are  all  off  hunting,  and  fishing, 
and  fighting.  I  s'pose  I'd  have  to  do  most  of 
the  defending  hearth  and  home  if  the  enemy 
came,  if  there  was  an  enemy,  although  I  suppose 
I  could  count  some  on  Eliza  Sam. 

Her  real  name  ain't  Eliza  Sam;  it  is  Eliza 
x»  281 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

Hunt.  She's  called  Eliza  Sam  to  distinguish 
her  from  other  Eliza  Hunts.  There  are  three 
in  this  village,  and  they  have  to  have  their 
fathers'  and  husbands'  names  tacked  on  to 
theirs  to  tell  'em  apart.  Eliza  Sam  wasn't 
never  married  and  her  father's  name  was  Sam. 
He  died  about  five  years  ago.  He  kept  the 
sawmill.  Beside  Eliza  Sam,  there  is  Eliza  John 
and  Eliza  Caleb.  Eliza  John  is  married  to  a 
man  by  the  name  of  John,  and  Eliza  Caleb  ain't 
married,  never  was,  and  is  never  like  to  be,  but 
they  have  tacked  Caleb  onto  her  name  to  tell 
her  from  the  others.  Nearly  half  this  village 
is  made  up  of  Hunts.  I  am  a  Hunt,  but  I  ain't 
related  to  the  Elizas  near  enough  to  say  so. 

I  don't  believe  anybody  could  trace  out  the 
relationship  betwixt  Eliza  Sam  and  me.  I 
know  her  father  used  to  try  to.  He  had  a 
picture  of  a  genealogical  tree  hanging  up  in  his 
parlor;  hangs  there  now,  though  he's  dropped 
into  his  grave.  If  ever  a  tree  grew  in  a  grave 
yard  it's  a  genealogical  one.  He  used  to  be 
fond  of  trying  to  point  out  to  me  whereabouts  I 
came  in,  but  he  couldn't  make  out  much.  ' '  It's 
here,  or  here,  or  here,  Henry,"  he  used  to  say, 
pointing  to  one  little  twig  after  another,  but  he 
never  knew  which  I  was.  He  lost  the  trail  at 
282 


ELIZA   SAM 

the  divide  of  the  branches  somewhere,  back 
where  an  Emmons  come  into  the  Hunt  family. 
It  never  seemed  much  account  to  me,  and  I 
miss  my  guess  if  it  did  to  Eliza  Sam,  but  it 
pleased  the  old  man,  and  we  used  to  stand  there 
and  let  him  talk.  I  trimmed  a  long  birch  stick 
for  him  to  use  for  a  pointer  when  he  talked 
about  his  tree.  I  never  see  that  tree  now  but 
it  seems  as  if  he  must  be  standing  in  front  of  it, 
only  there's  something  the  matter  with  my  own 
eyes. 

However,  I  don't  go  in  there  very  much,  now 
the  old  man  is  gone.  Eliza  Sam  lives  there 
alone  and  folks  might  talk,  if  we  ain't  as  young 
as  we  might  be.  I  guess  there  ain't  any  age 
limit  to  tongues.  I  want  to  be  careful,  for  I 
have  always  thought  a  good  deal  of  Eliza  Sam. 
She's  too  big  and  up-and-comin'  lookin'  to  suit 
some,  but  I  don't  mind  her  being  outspoken 
and  wanting  to  have  her  own  way.  Women 
folks  always  want  to  have  their  own  way,  and 
I  don't  know  as  they  are  any  the  worse  for  own 
ing  right  up  to  it,  the  way  Eliza  Sam  does,  than 
to  sort  of  mince  around  and  get  at  it  sideways. 
I  believe  in  broadsides  and  open  assaults,  and 
no  sneaking  under  cover  of  bushes,  whether  it 
is  a  man,  or  a  woman,  or  a  nation.  I  don't 
283 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

like  the  Injun  way  of  doing  things.  Whenever 
Eliza  Sam  has  wanted  anything  she  has  always 
taken  a  bee-line  for  it,  chin  up,  and  petticoats 
flying  in  the  wind.  And  mostly  she's  got  it,  but 
not  always.  There's  things  that  can't  be  got 
in  this  world,  whether  you  work  by  hook  or 
crook. 

There's  pricks  for  kickers  and  pricks  for 
sidlers,  and  Eliza  Sam  has  met  hers  as  well  as 
the  rest  of  us.  But  she  ain't  cried  out  nor 
made  any  fuss  about  it;  she  ain't  lost  a  pound 
of  flesh  nor  an  atom  of  the  handsome  red  color 
in  her  cheeks.  Eliza  Sam  is  a  heavy  woman. 
She  must  weigh  a  hundred  and  seventy  odd, 
though  she  ain't  exactly  stout.  She  has  a  large 
frame,  and  she  has  enough  bone  and  muscle  to 
take  the  wind  out  of  a  good  many  men  in  the 
village — and  she  has  done  it,  too.  I  know  one 
man  who  used  to  get  up  and  sidle  out  of  the 
grocery  store  of  an  evening  whenever  Eliza 
Sam's  name  came  up.  He's  moved  away  now, 
out  West,  and  all  his  folks.  He's  married  out 
there  I've  heard,  and  they're  talkin'  of  runnin' 
him  for  Congress.  Well,  he'll  get  there,  if  stick 
ing  to  it  whether  or  no,  without  considering 
if  folks  want  him  or  not,  has  anything  to  do 
with  it.  It  never  made  any  difference  to  him 
284 


ELIZA   SAM 

what  other  folks  wanted  as  long  as  he  did,  and 
generally  he  got  his  way;  but  once  he  didn't,  be 
cause  he  reckoned  without  Eliza  Sam. 

It  was  after  her  father  died,  and  she  was 
known  to  own  the  place  clear,  and  have  a  nice 
sum  in  bank  beside  some  Old  Colony  railroad 
shares.  He  had  never  married,  and  had  his 
mother  and  two  old-maid  sisters  on  his  hands, 
and  it  struck  him  he  would  do  well  to  get  Eliza 
Sam.  So  he  begun  courting  her.  Eliza  Sam 
didn't  want  him,  and  acted  dreadful  offish 
from  the  very  first  of  it,  but  that  didn't  make 
any  difference  to  him.  It  wasn't  what  she 
wanted,  but  what  he  wanted.  He'd  made  up 
his  mind  to  marry  her,  and  wasn't  going  to  be 
stopped  by  any  such  little  thing  as  her  not 
wanting  to  marry  him. 

He  lay  in  wait  for  her  everywhere  she  went. 
She  couldn't  step  into  the  post-office  nor  the 
store  but  there  he  was  running  alongside  her, 
looking  up  in  her  face  with  that  everlasting 
smirk  of  his,  which  seemed  dreadful  mild  and 
gentle,  but  covered  grit  as  sharp  as  needles. 
He  was  a  good  deal  smaller  than  Eliza  Sam,  and 
he  wore  his  hair  rather  long,  and  his  coat-tails 
lengthier  than  common,  and  they  had  a  way 
of  catching  the  wind  and  waving  when  every- 
285 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

thing  else  was  still,  and  his  hair  always  waved 
on  account  of  a  queer  little  teeter  in  his  walk. 
Eliza  Sam,  when  he  used  to  appear  beside  her, 
would  scarcely  look  at  him,  nor  treat  him  decent, 
and  any  man  with  a  mite  of  self-respect  would 
have  taken  the  hint,  but  he  wouldn't.  He  kept 
on  going  to  see  her  regular,  though  she  got  so 
she  wouldn't  go  to  the  door  to  let  him  in.  But 
that  didn't  make  any  difference ;  he  just  walked 
in  anyhow.  Once  Eliza  Sam  came  down-stairs 
an  hour  after  she'd  seen  him  coming  in  her  gate, 
and  there  he  was  setting  in  her  parlor  smirking 
up  at  her.  Finally  she  kept  her  door  locked, 
and  then  he  set  on  the  doorstep.  It  got  so  Eliza 
Sam  couldn't  go  out  the  front  door  without 
stepping  careful  and  looking,  to  be  sure  she 
wouldn't  stumble  over  that  man. 

Well,  finally  she  got  to  the  end  of  her  patience 
one  Sunday  night  in  November;  an  awful  cold 
night,  threatening  snow — it  did  snow  before 
morning.  He  used  to  wait  every  Sunday  even 
ing  after  meeting  to  go  home  with  her.  It 
didn't  make  any  difference  that  she  didn't  speak 
to  him,  he  went  just  the  same.  That  Sunday 
night  she  got  desperate.  I  haven't  mentioned 
something  that  may  sound  queer  about  Eliza 
Sam;  she  is  the  sexton  of  the  church.  I  never 
286 


ELIZA   SAM 

knew  of  any  village  that  had  a  woman  sexton 
before,  but  when  Eliza  Sam's  father  died,  there 
didn't  seem  to  be  any  man  handy  to  take  his 
place,  so  they  put  Eliza  in  as  sexton.  She'd 
been  doing  about  all  the  work  about  the  church 
before,  she  was  plenty  strong  enough,  and  there 
wasn't  any  reason  why  she  shouldn't  have  the 
place  as  well  as  a  man.  So  Eliza  was  sweeping, 
and  making  the  fires,  and  ringing  the  bell,  and 
she  gave  perfect  satisfaction  except  for  being  a 
little  ahead  of  time,  and  gettin'  folks  to  meeting 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  early  now  and  then, 
and  putting  a  linen  towel  over  the  top  of  the 
pulpit  to  save  the  velvet,  and  a  tidy  on  the 
back  of  the  parson's  sofa,  and  a  braided  mat  in 
front  of  the  communion-table.  Folks  didn't 
think  those  things  looked  quite  appropriate, 
but  Eliza  Sam  was  firm.  She  said  the  velvet 
on  the  pulpit  and  the  sofa  was  getting  all  worn 
out,  and  there  was  a  thin  place  in  the  carpet, 
and  she  had  her  way.  The  minister's  wife 
tried  to  get  the  tidy  and  the  towel  off  at  the 
conference  of  churches,  but  she  couldn't  fetch  it. 
Well,  that  November  night — it  was  the 
week  before  Thanksgiving — he  lay  in  wait  for 
Eliza  Sam  just  as  usual,  hanging  around  the 
door  while  she  shut  up  the  church  and  saw  to 
287 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

the  fires ;  then  she  came  out,  and  there  he  was 
alongside.     Then  she  faced  him. 

"See  here,"  said  she,  "what  be  you  here 
for?" 

"Why,  I'm  going  home  with  you,  Eliza,"  says 
he,  smirking  up  at  her. 

"What  be  you  a-going  home  with  me  for?" 
says  she. 

"Why,  to  protect  you,  Eliza,"  says  he. 

"Protect  your  grandmother!"  says  she. 
"Now,  sir,  I  want  you  to  understand  once  for 
all  I  don't  want  you  to  go  home  with  me.  I 
have  no  need  of  your  protection  nor  your 
society." 

He  didn't  say  anything,  but  he  just  smirked 
up  at  her,  and  he  went  right  along. 

"Did  you  hear  me?"  says  Eliza  Sam. 

He  just  smirked  up  at  her  again  and  tucked 
his  hand  through  her  arm.  Then  she  got 
desperate.  She  didn't  say  another  word,  but 
she  just  turned  about,  and  she  begun  walking 
down  the  old  road  to  Clifford ;  they  had  passed 
it  a  little  ways  back.  The  wind  was  in  their 
faces,  and  it  was  bitter  cold ;  hadn't  moderated 
enough  to  snow.  Well,  she  walked  on  and  on, 
with  him  hold  of  her  arm.  Didn't  try  to  shake 
him  off  or  nothing,  but  just  went  on.  Finally 
288 


ELIZA   SAM 

he  speaks,  kind  of  timid.  "Do  you  know  this 
ain't  the  way  home,  Eliza  Sam?"  says  he. 

She  didn't  make  no  reply.  She  just  went  on. 
She  was  dressed  real  warm,  and  she  never  felt 
the  cold  much  anyway.  He  was  always  a  real 
shivery  son  of  man,  and  he  hadn't  got  on  his 
winter  overcoat. 

Presently  he  spoke  again.  "Guess  you  took 
the  wrong  turn  without  meaning  to,  Eliza  Sam," 
says  he.  She  didn't  make  any  reply,  but  she 
walked  along  with  him  kind  of  trailing  at  her 
arm. 

Finally  she  begun  to  think  she'd  have  to  carry 
him  if  she  walked  much  farther — she'd  gone 
about  three  miles — and  she  turned  round  and 
walked  toward  home.  He  tried  to  talk  then, 
and  be  real  chipper  and  agreeable,  but  she  kept 
her  mouth  shut  tight.  She  was  thinking  how 
she  could  shake  him  off.  When  she  got  back 
to  the  main  road,  she  stopped  a  minute,  then 
headed  for  the  graveyard  on  the  right,  and  in 
she  went,  dragging  him  with  her.  He  acted 
kind  of  scared  then.  She  said  she  guessed  he 
begun  to  think  maybe  she'd  gone  clean  out  of 
her  head. 

"Guess  you  don't  know  where  we're  going, 
Eliza  Sam, "  says  he ;  but  she  didn't  say  anything, 
289 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

just  went  right  on,  stumbling  over  the  graves. 
It  was  quite  a  dark  night.  Well,  she  couldn't 
shake  him  off  that  way,  though  she  sat  down 
on  an  old  flat  tombstone  in  the  Greenaway  lot 
as  much  as  fifteen  minutes,  with  the  wind  right 
in  their  faces,  with  him  side  of  her.  He  tried 
putting  his  arm  around  her  waist,  but  she  sat 
up  so  straight  and  stiff  that  he  settled  back,  and 
hemmed,  and  acted  as  if  he  hadn't  meant  to. 
He  kept  asking  her  if  she  wasn't  afraid  of  catch 
ing  cold,  but  she  said  never  one  word. 

Presently  she  rose  up  and  straight  back  to  the 
church  she  went.  She  took  the  key  out  of  her 
pocket  and  unlocked  the  door,  and  went  in  with 
him  at  her  heels,  he  asking  real  gentle  and  timid 
if  she'd  left  anything,  and  if  she  was  afraid  the 
fires  wasn't  fixed  right.  She  never  spoke,  but 
in  she  went,  and  kind  of  thrust  him  off  her  arm 
when  she  went  through  the  door.  The  church 
was  as  dark  as  a  pocket.  She  just  slipped  past 
him,  and  before  he  knew  it  she  was  outside, 
and  had  locked  him  in.  Then  she  went  off 
home  and  left  him.  She  could  hear  him  calling 
after  her  kind  of  feeble,  but  she  let  him  call. 

Well,  Eliza  Sam  left  him  there  till  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then  she  begun  to 
get  uneasy.  The  wind  was  rising  all  the  time, 
290 


ELIZA   SAM 

and  the  snow  coming  thick.  She  begun  to 
think  maybe  his  mother  and  sisters  were  sitting 
up  watching  for  him,  and  that  she  was  punishing 
them  more  than  him.  So  she  got  up  and 
dressed  herself,  and  came  through  the  snow  to 
my  window.  I  lived  right  across  the  street, 
alone  except  for  dogs.  I  had  five  beside  a  num- 
per  of  puppies  at  the  time. 

One  of  the  dogs  begun  to  bark,  then  the  others 
joined  in  and  woke  me  up,  and  I  raised  my 
window  and  looked  out,  and  there  was  Eliza 
Sam  standing  under  the  window  with  the  storm 
driving  past  her.  I  didn't  know  her  at  first. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  I. 

"It's  me — Eliza  Sam,"  says  she. 

Then  I  knew  her  right  away.  "What's  the 
matter?"  says  I. 

Then  she  told  me  what  she'd  done,  speaking 
kind  of  quick  and  trembly,  for  Eliza  Sam  is  a 
woman  after  all,  and  though  she  has  spunk 
enough  to  do  things  another  woman  wouldn't, 
she  can't  get  over  being  scared  at  them  after 
ward. 

"I'm  dreadful  afraid  his  mother  and  Maria 

and  Jane  are  sitting  up  worrying  about  him," 

says  she,  "and  I  hate  to  ask  you,  but  I  wish 

you  would  go  and  let  him  out.     I  started  to  go 

291 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

myself,  then  I  didn't  know  but  he  would  insist 
on  seeing  me  home  after  all,  in  spite  of  me,  and 
I  guess  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  go." 

"You  just  lay  that  key  on  the  window-sill 
under  this  one,  Eliza,"  says  I,  "and  go  home 
and  go  to  bed;  I'll  see  him  home."  I  was  so 
mad  I  could  scarcely  speak. 

Well,  I  let  him  out.  He  looked  kind  of  white 
and  scared,  though  he'd  been  warm  and  com 
fortable  enough,  and  he  went  home,  trudging 
through  the  snow  in  his  thin  overcoat.  I 
didn't  waste  many  words  on  him,  but  it  didn't 
take  me  long  to  tell  him  what  I  thought  of  him. 
However,  he  didn't  seem  to  sense  it.  He  sort 
o'  stared  at  me,  and  muttered  something  that 
I  didn't  hear,  and  went  off,  and  he  never 
troubled  Eliza  Sam  again.  But  the  story  got 
around  the  village,  and  he  didn't  have  much 
peace  till  he  moved  away.  He  sold  out  his 
store — he  kept  the  jewelry  store — and  put  up 
his  house  at  auction.  His  mother  had  died  in 
the  mean  time,  and  one  of  his  sisters  got  mar 
ried,  and  he  went  away  with  Maria. 

Folks  laughed  and  thought  it  was  real  cute 

in  Eliza  Sam,  and  upheld  her  in  what  she  did, 

but  I  guess  it  made  the  men  sort  of  afraid  of  her. 

At  any  rate,  nobody  else  offered  to  pay  her  any 

292 


ELIZA   SAM 

attention,  though  it  was  a  fine  place  for  any 
man.  He  would  have  been  well  fixed  in  that 
nice  house,  and  Eliza  was  a  good  housekeeper 
and  a  splendid  cook,  besides  being  as  good  a 
woman  as  ever  lived.  But  even  a  man  who 
means  well,  and  ain't  any  idea  of  not  doing 
what's  right,  don't  just  like  the  notion  of  being 
held  in  with  such  a  tight  rein  in  case  he  should 
feel  like  kicking  over  the  traces.  But  there 
wasn't  a  man  in  the  village  who  didn't  have  re 
spect  for  Eliza  Sam,  and  straighten  himself  to 
look  as  well  as  he  could  when  he  saw  her  coming. 
And  as  for  other  women,  they  all  like  Eliza 
Sam,  and  I  know  one  woman  who,  unless  I  miss 
my  guess,  would  go  down  on  her  kees  and  about 
worship  her  any  minute,  and  that's  Roger 
Little's  wife.  She  was  Ada  Dean  before  Little 
married  her,  and  she  was  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  village,  and  had  her  pick  of  all  the  likely 
young  men,  and  chose  the  one  that  wasn't 
likely,  as  usual.  She  would  have  Roger  Little, 
though  all  her  folks  were  set  against  it,  and  it 
fairly  killed  her  mother.  She  died  not  long 
after  Ada  was  married,  and  the  poor  child  never 
got  over  it.  She  had  begun  to  see  her  mistake 
by  that  time,  and  her  pretty  light  ways  were 
changed  for  old  sober  ones.  I  met  her  on  the 
293 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

street  and  hardly  knew  her,  and  other  folks 
spoke  of  doing  the  same.  Roger  Little  wasn't 
a  man  to  make  any  girl  happy,  least  of  all  a 
little  meek,  sensitive  one  like  Ada  Dean.  He 
came  of  the  best  old  family  in  the  village,  the 
old  Squire  Roger's,  and  he  had  had  a  college 
education  and  plenty  of  money  to  start  with, 
and  good  looks,  but  he's  wasted  everything. 
His  money  was  soon  gone,  and  his  good  looks 
going,  and  his  education  had  been  of  small 
account  to  him,  and  his  father,  old  Captain 
Richard  Little,  as  fine  an  old  man  as  ever  lived, 
had  about  given  him  up  and  decided  to  leave 
his  money  away  from  him  to  foreign  missions. 
He  talked  with  me  about  it  one  night  going 
home  from  meeting;  we  came  out  about  the 
same  time,  and  he  was  feeling  sort  of  down 
hearted,  and  I  suppose  inclined  to  free  his  mind 
to  somebody,  though  it  wasn't  his  way  generally. 
Captain  Richard  was  a  rather  gruff,  keep-his- 
troubles-to-himself  sort  of  a  man,  but  the  time 
comes  to  everybody  when  they  have  to  speak 
to  some  other  human  being  or  give  up  beat. 
I  sort  of  wondered  at  Captain  Richard  speaking 
to  me,  for  I  was  a  good  deal  younger  than  he 
was,  though  way  ahead  of  his  son  Roger. 
However,  I  had  the  name  of  keeping  things  to 
294 


ELIZA   SAM 

myself  pretty  well,  and  I  wasn't  married,  and 
didn't  have  any  women-folks  to  talk  to,  and  I 
suppose  he  thought  I  was  safe,  and  I  never  did 
tell  a  soul  as  long  as  the  old  man  lived,  though 
it  couldn't  have  done  any  harm  as  I  know  of  if 
I  had,  as  things  turned  out. 

Captain  Richard  told  me  that  night  with  a 
hoarse  growl  in  his  throat,  the  way  a  man's 
voice  is  when  he's  full  of  grief  and  ain't  giving 
way  to  it,  that  he'd  about  decided  to  make  his 
will  and  leave  his  money  away  from  Roger. 
"He's  my  only  son,  Henry,"  says  he,  "and  it 
seems  a  pretty  hard  thing  to  do,  but  it's  money 
that  has  come  by  good  honest  labor,  for  I  didn't 
inherit  much  with  the  depreciation  of  real 
estate  in  this  town,  and  I  have  it  in  trust  from 
the  Lord,  and  I  can't  let  it  be  squandered  by  a 
drunkard  and  a  spendthrift.  I  know  if  any 
thing  happens  to  my  son  that  his  wife  will  be 
taken  care  of,  for  her  father  has  enough,  and  is 
going  to  settle  it  on  her.  My  money  left  to 
my  son's  wife  away  from  him  would  only  make 
trouble  betwixt  them,  and  I'm  going  to  leave 
it  to  foreign  missions,  and  I  may  ask  you  to 
come  over  and  be  a  witness  some  day,  Henry," 
says  he,  "and  I'm  telling  you  all  this  so  there 
won't  be  any  question  of  will-breaking  and 
295 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

sanity  afterward.  It  don't  seem  as  if  my  son 
would  ever  think  of  breaking  his  father's  will," 
says  he,  "but  when  a  man  gets  started  down 
hill,  snags  in  the  way  only  make  him  go  faster. 
I'm  going  to  give  Roger  one  more  chance," 
says  he;  "it's  about  six  weeks  since  he's  been 
doing  anything,  and  next  week  he's  called  on 
that  arson  case  at  Southbridge  (Roger  Little  is  a 
lawyer),  and  if  he's  sober  and  in  his  right  mind 
and  able  to  be  there,  I'll  wait  a  while  longer 
about  that  will;  otherwise  I  sha'n't.  I've  just 
been  over  there,  Henry,"  the  old  man  wound 
up,  "and  he  was  away ;  had  been  away  all  night, 
the  Lord  knows  where,  and  that  poor  little  wife 
of  his  a-crying — ' 

Well,  Captain  Richard  didn't  say  any  more; 
he  gave  a  great  grunt,  as  if  he'd  been  facing 
something  he  hated;  then  he  went  off,  and  I 
heard  his  tramp,  tramp  down  the  street — the 
Captain  was  a  heavy  man,  and  his  energy 
seemed  to  add  a  third  to  his  weight  when  he 
walked. 

I  wondered  whether  Roger  Little  would 
come  to  time  for  that  arson  trial;  it  was  only 
three  days  off,  and  I  knew  from  what  I'd  heard 
that  he'd  been  doing  pretty  bad.  It  seemed  to 
me  it  was  doubtful,  and  it  was,  and  he  would 
296 


ELIZA   SAM 

never  have  done  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Eliza 
Sam.  The  trial  was  set  for  Wednesday,  and 
Tuesday  Roger  Little  was  laying  fast  asleep 
on  account  of  the  liquor  he'd  been  drinking, 
and  he  had  another  great  bottle  of  port  wine 
ready  to  drink  on  the  stand  beside  the  bed 
when  he  woke  up.  It  was  a  queer  thing,  but 
Roger  Little  wouldn't  get  drunk  on  a  thing  but 
nice  wine.  He  hated  whiskey  and  rum  like 
all  possessed,  and  said  he'd  go  to  the  devil  like 
a  gentleman  anyhow.  Drinking  such  costly 
stuff  made  his  money  go  faster.  Often  he 
wouldn't  touch  a  thing  except  champagne. 
Well,  there  he  lay,  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  when  Eliza  Sam  came  in.  She  was 
going  by  when  she  heard  Roger's  wife  crying, 
the  bedroom  window  being  open. 

Eliza  Sam  went  right  in,  went  through  the 
sitting-room  to  the  bedroom,  and  stood  there 
in  the  door. 

" What's  the  matter?"  says  she. 

Roger's  wife  she  came  forward  with  her  hand 
up,  looking  back  sort  of  scared  at  her  husband ; 
he  was  apt  to  wake  up  cross,  if  he  did  get  drunk 
on  such  high-priced  wines. 

"He's  asleep,"   says  she,  in  a  whisper,  and 
catching  her  breath  with  a  sob. 
297 


THE    WINNING    LADY 

"I  don't  care  if  I  do  wake  him;  I  ain't  afraid 
of  him,"  says  Eliza  Sam. 

She  and  Ada  went  out  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  Ada,  though  she  could  scarcely  speak  for 
crying,  told  her  how  the  trial  was  coming  off 
the  next  day,  and  Roger  wouldn't  be  able  to 
go,  sure,  and  worse  than  all,  she  had  just  had 
word  that  the  old  Captain  was  coming  down 
to  see  how  his  son  was  getting  on. 

''It's  poor  Roger's  last  chance,"  says  Roger's 
wife.  "Father  Little  told  him  so,  and  he'll 
be  here  any  minute,  and — he'll  see  Roger,  and 
it'll  be  no  use  my  saying  Roger  is  sick  to 
morrow;  he'll — know." 

"You  wasn't  going  to  lie,  were  you?"  says 
Eliza  Sam. 

"I'd  do  most  anything  to  help  Roger,"  says 
his  wife. 

"That  wouldn't  help  him  a  mite  in  the  long 
run,"  says  Eliza  Sam. 

She  sat  eying  Ada  a  minute,  then  her  eyes 
begun  to  twinkle  in  a  way  they  have  when  she's 
got  a  new  idea.  She  laughed,  and  Roger's 
poor  wife  stared  at  her. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  says  Eliza  Sam. 
With  that,  up  she  gets  and  marches  into  the 
bedroom,  and  catches  up  that  port  wine  bottle 
298 


ELIZA  SAM 

and  flings  it  out  of  the  window  into  a  clump 
of  lilacs. 

"There,"  says  she,  real  loud;  but  Roger  he 
never  stirs. 

Roger's  wife  she  just  sort  of  gasps  and  looks 
at  Eliza  Sam,  so  scared  she  don't  know  what 
to  do. 

"I  don't  know  what  he'll  say,"  says  she; 
"he'll  wake  up  pretty  soon  and  reach  out  for  it, 
and  it's  the  last  bottle  but  one,  and  I  just 
fetched  it  up-stairs." 

"The  last  bottle  but  one?"  says  Eliza  Sam. 

"Yes,"  says  Roger's  wife. 

"Where  is  that  last  one?"  says  Eliza 
Sam. 

"Down  cellar,"  says  Roger's  wife,  kind  of 
feeble.  "Shall  I  fetch  it  up?"  says  she. 

"Fetch  up  your  grandmother!"  says  Eliza 
Sam,  and  down  cellar  she  goes,  and  crash  goes 
that  last  bottle  of  port  wine  into  the  coal-bin. 
And  then  she  comes  up  into  the  sitting-room 
all  of  a  twinkle,  and  she  told  Roger's  wife  what 
she  meant  to  do.  They  knew  about  when  old 
Captain  Richard  would  be  along,  near  five 
o'clock.  That  would  give  him  time  to  get  home 
to  tea.  The  old  Captain  was  very  regular  in  his 
habits.  He  had  tea  summer  and  winter  at  six 
299 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

o'clock,  and  he  wouldn't  let  anything  make  him 
a  minute  late. 

Well,  what  happened  finally  was  when  old 
Captain  Richard  Little  came  riding  into  the 
yard — he  always  rode  horseback,  except  when 
he  was  on  his  way  to  and  from  meeting — some 
body  that  looked  just  like  his  Roger — had  on 
his  coat  and  his  hat,  and  was  just  about  his 
size,  and  sat  in  saddle  in  a  way  he  had,  but 
wasn't  Roger,  but  Eliza  Sam  in  his  clothes — rode 
out  of  the  yard  like  a  spirit,  on  Roger's  black 
horse  right  under  his  nose.  The  Captain  came 
in  jest  the  second  after  Eliza  went  out. 

"Hello,  hello,  Roger!"  yells  the  Captain. 
But  Roger  he  didn't  seem  to  hear.  Then  the 
Captain  he  went  a-riding  after,  and  she  flew. 
The  old  Captain  he  tried  to  catch  up  till  they'd 
both  most  got  to  Southbridge ;  then  he  happened 
to  remember  that  he'd  be  late  to  tea  if  he  went 
any  farther,  and  he  turned  round  and  rode  back. 
He  just  stopped  long  enough  at  Roger's  to 
holler  to  Ada  that  he  guessed  Roger  would  be 
able  to  get  to  the  trial  next  day  if  he  rode  as 
fast  as  he  was  doing  now.  You  see,  he  thorough 
ly  believed  Roger  was  headed  for  Southbridge  on 
business  about  the  trial.  Then  he  fetched  a 
big  laugh  and  rode  on,  leaving  Roger's  wife 
300 


ELIZA   SAM 

most  fainting.  She  stayed  on  in  the  yard  till 
Eliza  Sam  came  back.  She  didn't  dare  to  go 
in  the  house  for  fear  Roger  would  wake  up 
and  be  cross  because  the  wine  was  gone,  let 
alone  his  clothes.  But  he  didn't  wake  up  till 
Eliza  was  there  and  standing  over  him.  She 
didn't  wait  to  change  his  clothes  when  poor 
Ada  told  her  he  was  stirring  and  calling  out  for 
more  wine,  and  Roger,  when  he  saw  that  good, 
handsome  woman  standing  over  him  in  the 
clothes  he'd  disgraced,  must  have  thought 
something  had  happened.  Anyway,  half -drunk 
as  he  was,  he  lay  still  and  listened  to  what  she 
said.  She  didn't  spare  him,  not  a  mite.  She 
told  him  just  what  he  was.  Well,  the  upshot 
of  it  was,  Roger  Little  he  turned  over  a  new 
leaf.  He  went  to  the  trial  next  day,  and  he 
won  his  case.  Then  that  same  night  he  went 
to  the  old  Captain,  and  he  made  a  clean  breast 
of  what  had  happened  the  day  before  and  what 
Eliza  Sam  had  done. 

"It's  the  first  and  last  time  that  a  woman  is 
going  to  run  away  for  me  from  my  own  father," 
says  he. 

Roger  Little  has  done  as  well  as  anybody 
could  expect  ever  since.  He  don't  drink  any 
to  speak  of,  and  he  tends  to  business  as  well  as 
301 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

a  man  of  his  turn  ever  could.  He's  made  quite 
a  name  for  himself.  Sometimes  he's  fishing 
when  he  ought  to  be  studying,  but  he  always 
fetches  up  in  the  court-room.  Mebbe  if  he 
wasn't  himself  he  might  be  a  Choate  or  a  Web 
ster,  but  as  it  is  he  does  pretty  well,  and 
we're  proud  of  him,  and  it's  all  due  to  Eliza 
Sam. 

Years  ago  when  Eliza  Sam  and  I  were  boy 
and  girl  —  we  weren't  over  sixteen — I  used  to 
think  she  was  the  prettiest  girl  anywhere  about. 
Once  I  sent  her  a  valentine,  spent  every  cent 
of  the  money  I'd  saved  to  go  to  the  circus,  but 
I  never  got  much  satisfaction  out  of  it.  She 
never  let  on  she'd  had  a  valentine,  much  less 
thanked  me  for  it.  I  didn't  put  my  name  to  it, 
I  was  too  bashful,  and  mebbe  she  never  knew 
where  it  came  from,  but  I  supposed  she  would. 

I  used  to  go  home  with  Eliza  Sam  before  I 
went  home  with  any  other  girl,  but  I  was  always 
too  afraid  of  her  to  kiss  her  good-bye  when  we 
got  to  her  father's  gate.  All  my  life,  off  and 
on,  I  have  been  seeing  Eliza  Sam  home  from 
meeting  and  sewing-meetings  and  things,  and 
planning  between  whiles  how  I  would  kiss  her 
at  the  gate,  but  I  never  dared.  I  had  an  idea 
that  Eliza  Sam  of  all  women  would  be  angry 
302 


ELIZA   SAM 

or  laugh  at  me.  I  didn't  know  which,  but  I  was 
sure  it  would  be  one  of  the  two. 

But  at  last  one  night  in  June  we  had  said 
good-night,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  picked  up 
courage.  I  said  good-night  over  again;  then 
I  caught  hold  of  her  arms,  as  big  as  mine  in  her 
purple  silk  sleeve,  and  I  kissed  her. 

11  Good-night,  Eliza,"  says  I.  Then  I  waited, 
I  didn't  know  for  what.  But  all  she  did  was  to 
say,  ''Good-night,  Henry,"  and  walked  into  the 
house — and  Eliza  Sam  and  I  are  going  to  get 
married  before  long,  though  we  haven't  told 
the  neighbors. 


FLORA    AND    HANNAH 


FLORA    AND    HANNAH 

IT  happened  a  number  of  years  ago,  when 
valentines  were  made  more  account  of  than 
they  are  now.  Why,  in  those  days  some 
valentines  were  almost  as  good  as  an  offer  of 
marriage.  I  am  sure  Jonty's  was.  He  meant 
it  for  one,  and  I  knew  he  did.  Jonty — his 
name  was  Jonathan,  but  we  always  called  him 
Jonty  —  was  my  husband's  youngest  brother, 
and  he  had  lived  with  me  ever  since  his  father 
died,  when  he  wasn't  much  more  than  a  baby. 
He  was  twenty  years  younger  than  my  hus 
band,  and  we  both  of  us,  since  we  didn't  have 
any  children  of  our  own,  looked  upon  him  as  a 
son.  My  husband  just  set  his  eyes  by  his  little 
brother,  and  he  was  a  pretty  boy,  with  the  red 
dest  cheeks  and  curliest  light  hair,  and  he  was 
just  as  good  as  he  could  be,  always  ready  to 
run  errands,  get  a  pail  of  water,  and  bring  in 
307 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

kindling-wood,  starting  the  minute  he  was  told, 
and  goin'  laughin'  as  if  he  was  tickled  to  death 
at  havin'  a  chance  to  do  somethin'  for  some 
body.  The  way  he  used  to  wait  on  Grandma 
Page,  find  her  glasses  for  her,  and  hold  her  yarn, 
was  really  wonderful  in  a  boy.  Grandma  Page 
was  his  and  Caleb's  —  my  husband's  —  great- 
grandmother.  She  was  pretty  old  when  Jonty 
came  to  live  with  us,  and  when  that  happened 
about  the  valentine  she  was  near  ninety,  but 
one  of  the  prettiest  old  ladies  you  ever  saw, 
cheeks  as  pink  as  a  girl's,  and  her  white  hair  all 
wavy,  and  she  wore  the  nicest  white  caps,  with 
lavender  ribbons  on  them.  We  were  proud  of 
Grandma  Page,  and  she  was  one  of  those  little, 
gentle,  delicate,  clinging  creatures  that  every 
body  loves  and  pets.  People  used  to  say  she 
didn't  have  much  force,  and  couldn't  do  any 
thing  but  knit  and  look  peaceful  and  pretty, 
but  she  wasn't  half  the  care  that  most  old 
people  are.  When  my  husband  died,  Jonty 
was  most  twenty-five  years  old,  and  it  was  the 
greatest  comfort  to  me  that  I  had  him  and 
Grandma  Page.  Jonty  he  took  hold  and  run 
the  farm  just  as  smart,  and  we  got  along  well, 
and  had  plenty  of  everything,  though  I  was  sad 
enough  sometimes. 

308 


FLORA   AND   HANNAH 

I  felt  dreadful  sober  when  Jonty  came  to  me 
that  afternoon  about  the  valentine.  It  made 
me  think  of  the  time  when  Caleb  sent  me  a 
valentine,  for  one  thing;  and  then  I  couldn't 
help  feeling  a  little  sad  that  Jonty  should  be 
thinkin'  of  some  other  woman  beside  his  grand 
ma  and  me,  though  I  knew  it  was  for  the  best  if 
he  got  a  good  wife  and  helpmate. 

But  I  tried  to  look  as  cheerful  as  I  could. 
Jonty  didn't  act  half  as  silly  and  ashamed  in 
asking  me  as  some  boys  would  have  acted.  He 
was  always  real  honest  and  simple  and  out 
spoken,  and  never  seemed  to  see  any  reason  for 
being  ashamed  of  anything  that  was  right. 
He  never  colored  up  a  mite,  though  his  cheeks 
were  always  like  roses,  as  bright  as  a  girl's, 
and  he  laughed  kind  of  sweet  and  pleasant  when 
he  showed  me  the  little  sheet  of  gilt-edged  paper 
with  a  bunch  of  rosebuds  in  the  corner,  that 
was  to  go  with  the  handsomest  valentine  I  ever 
laid  my  eyes  on.  There  was  paper  cut  some 
how  so  you  could  lift  it  up  in  a  sort  of  spiral 
twist  and  see  underneath  a  couple  seated  in  an 
arbor  all  covered  with  roses.  What  Jonty 
wanted  was  a  little  poem  written  on  that  sheet 
of  paper.  " Can't  you  do  it,  Aunt  Jane?"  said 
he,  in  his  coaxing  way.  He  always  called 
3°9 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

me  "Aunt,"  though  I  was  really  his  sister-in- 
law. 

"Why,  my  land,  Jonty,  I  don't  believe  I  can," 
said  I.  "I'm  afraid  I'll  spoil  this  beautiful 
paper." 

"Oh  no,  you  won't,"  said  he.  "Do,  Aunt 
Jane." 

Now  I  have  really  had  quite  a  name  for  writ 
ing  poetry,  and  once  a  piece  on  the  death  of 
Deacon  Griggs'  wife  was  published  in  the  paper, 
but  I  have  written  mostly  in  albums  and  for 
people  on  the  deaths  of  relatives  and  friends, 
and  then  they  would  keep  them  in  their  family 
Bibles.  Why,  there  was  one  spell  when  it 
seemed  to  me  that  nobody  died  that  I  wasn't 
called  upon  to  write  a  poem  about  it.  But  I 
hadn't  never  written  a  valentine  in  my  life,  and 
I  was  dreadful  doubtful.  I  was  afraid  of  spoil 
ing  that  handsome  paper.  But  I  wrote  it  all 
off  on  a  slate  first,  and  finally  I  wrote  quite  a 
good  piece,  though  I  do  say  so,  and  Jonty  he 
copied  it,  and  signed  his  name. 

"I  s'pose  I  know  who  it's  going  to?"  said  I. 

"Yes,  it's  Flora,"  said  Jonty,  laughing,  but 

just  as  honest  as  if  he  was  a  child.     Grandma 

Page  was  knittin'  in  the  corner,  and  she  hadn't 

paid  any  attention  to  what  was  going  on.     She 

310 


FLORA   AND    HANNAH 

had  grown  so  dreadful  hard  of  hearin'  within  a 
year  we  had  to  shout  to  make  her  hear  any 
thing. 

I  knew  well  enough  that  the  valentine  was 
going  to  Flora  before  I  asked  Jonty.  She  was 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  town,  and  all  the  young 
men  were  wild  about  her.  Nobody  looked  at 
her  sister  Hannah,  though  she  was  a  nice  girl. 
Sometimes  I  used  to  think  maybe  she  would 
be  full  as  nice  to  get  along  with  as  Flora, 
though  she  did  have  a  dull  skin,  and  dull-colored 
hair,  and  a  homely  nose.  Hannah  hadn't  a 
good  feature  in  her  face  except  her  eyes,  which 
were  as  brown  and  honest  as  a  good  dog's. 
Flora,  beside  her,  looked  all  shine  and  pink  and 
white  and  gold.  She  was  tall  and  of  a  fine 
shape,  too,  and  Hannah  was  under-size.  Both 
girls  used  to  be  in  our  house  a  good  deal,  and 
grandma  and  I  thought  a  lot  of  them.  Grand 
ma  used  to  say  that  Flora  was  a  pretty  cretur, 
but  you  could  depend  on  Hannah. 

Well,  after  Jonty 's  valentine  was  finished  he 
left  it  on  the  sitting-room  table,  and  went  out 
to  see  a  man  who  had  come  to  ask  about  some 
wood,  and  I  went  out  in  the  kitchen  to  bake 
some  cake.  Pretty  soon  I  saw  Grandma  Page, 
with  her  big  gray  shawl  on  and  her  white 


THE    WINNING   LADY 

hood,  kind  of  rockin'  down  the  front  walk 
in  a  way  she  had.  I  thought  to  myself  I 
guessed  she  was  goin'  to  run  into  Mrs.  Atkins's. 
She  used  to  do  that  quite  often;  it  was  only 
a  step  down  the  street,  and  she  wasn't  feeble 
at  all. 

In  a  little  while  Jonty  came  through  the 
kitchen  on  his  way  to  the  sitting-room  to  get 
his  valentine.  Then  he  come  runnin'  back. 
"Why,  where  is  it,  Aunt  Jane?"  said  he. 

"Why,  ain't  it  there  on  the  table  where  you 
left  it?"  said  I. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  said  he. 

"Why,  that's  dreadful  funny,"  said  I.  I 
wiped  the  flour  off  my  hands,  and  went  in  to 
look,  but  there  was  no  valentine  there.  We 
searched  everywhere,  but  we  couldn't  find  it. 
When  Grandma  came  back  we  questioned  her; 
then  the  mystery  was  solved,  as  we  supposed. 
She  said,  in  her  little,  soft,  innocent  way,  like  an 
old  baby's,  that  she  had  been  down  to  the  post- 
office  thinking  there  might  be  a  letter  from 
Edward — Edward  was  her  son  out  West — and 
she  had  posted  the  valentine.  Well,  there 
wasn't  anything  so  strange  about  it.  The  post- 
office  was  next  door  to  Mrs.  Atkins's.  Grandma 
often  went  there,  and  often  posted  letters,  but 
312 


FLORA   AND   HANNAH 

it  did  seem  a  little  odd  that  she  should  have 
taken  the  valentine.  However,  Jonty  thanked 
her  in  his  sweet  way,  and  we  supposed  every 
thing  was  all  right. 

After  supper  that  night  Hannah  came  in. 
Grandma  had  gone  to  bed,  and  Jonty  had  run 
down  to  the  store  on  an  errand.  I  saw  in  a 
minute  that  something  had  happened.  Han 
nah  didn't  look  like  herself.  Her  dull  cheeks 
were  pink,  her  eyes  shone,  and  she  looked  al 
most  pretty. 

4 'Oh,  Aunt  Jane,"  she  said — she  always 
called  me  Aunt  Jane — "I  saw  him  go  past  and 
knew  he  wasn't  here,  or  I  wouldn't  have  come!" 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  is  the  matter, 
child?"  said  I,  for  she  was  laughing  and  crying 
all  together. 

"I  had  to  tell  somebody,  I  was  so  happy," 
said  she,  "and  Flora  has  got  Mark  Williams 
calling  on  her,  and  mother  is  away,  and — " 

"Why,  what  is  it? — what  has  happened?" 
said  I. 

"Oh,  don't  you — don't  you  know?"  said  she. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  I. 

"Jonty  has  sent  me  a  valentine,"  she  whis 
pered.     Then  down  her  head  went  on  my  lap, 
and  she  cried  and  cried  for  pure  joy.     "Oh, 
313 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

Aunt  Jane,"  she  sobbed  out,  "I  never  thought 
anybody  would  love  me.  I  thought  it  would 
always  be  Flora  and  now  it's  me,  and — I've 
always  thought  Jonty  was  better  than  anybody 
else.  Oh,  Aunt  Jane,  I'm  not  half  good  enough 
for  him;  I  wish  I  was  pretty  like  Flora,  but  I  do 
love  Jonty  and  I  will  try  to  make  him  happy." 

I  was  so  bewildered  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do.  I  put  my  hand  on  the  girl's  head,  and 
tried  to  hush  her,  and  then  I  heard  a  noise 
and  looked  up,  and  there  was  Jonty  standing  in 
the  door,  and  he  had  heard  every  word.  And 
Hannah  looked  up  and  saw  him,  and  sprang  to 
her  feet,  and  ran  straight  to  him,  and  was 
sobbing  on  his  shoulder. 

I  shall  never  forget  Jonty 's  face  as  he  looked 
at  me  over  her  head.  He  was  so  kind  and 
gentle  that,  in  all  his  bewilderment,  his  arm 
had  gone  'round  the  poor  little  thing,  and  he 
was  stroking  her  head  as  if  she  had  been  a  lost 
kitten.  And  I  shall  never  forget  the  sound 
of  my  own  voice,  it  was  so  queer  and  faint  as  I 
said  to  him: 

"  Hannah  says  she's  got^a  valentine  from 
you,  Jonty." 

Well,  Jonty  soothed  and  coaxed  her,  and  took 
her  home,  and  when  he  came  back  his  face  was 


FLORA   AND   HANNAH 

as  white  as  a  sheet.  He  sat  down  opposite  me, 
and  looked  at  me,  and  I  at  him. 

"What  be  you  goin'  to  do,  Jonty?"  said  I. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  break  that  poor  little  thing's 
heart,  and  Mark  Williams  is  over  there  with 
Flora,  and — I  don't  believe  she  has  ever  had 
much  choice  betwixt  us,  and — and — she  ain't 
never  acted  as  if  she  thought  as  much  of  me 
as  this." 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  marry  Hannah  when  it's 
Flora  you  want?"  said  I,  for  I  thought  he  was 
carryin'  it  too  far. 

"Yes,  I  be,  unless  I  see  that  Flora  is  goin'  to 
be  upset  over  it,"  said  he. 

And  he  did.  Mark  Williams  married  Flora 
— but  I  always  suspected  she  would  full  as  soon 
have  had  Jonty,  but  she  was  never  a  girl  to 
cry  for  one  fiddle  when  she  could  get  another 
—and  Jonty  married  Hannah.  Hannah  has 
made  him  a  splendid  wife,  and  there  ain't 
been  a  happier  family  in  the  village  than 
ours. 

But  one  thing  always  puzzled  Jonty  and  me, 
though  we  never  said  a  word  to  Hannah  about 
it.  We  could  not  understand  how  Jonty  ever 
happened  to  direct  that  valentine  envelope  to 
Hannah  instead  of  Flora.  He  said  he  could 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

almost  take  his  Bible  oath  that  he  hadn't. 
He  used  often  to  talk  to  me  about  it,  and  say 
that  he  knew  now  that  Hannah  was  the  wife 
for  him  and  made  him  happier  than  Flora 
could  ever  have  done,  but  he  couldn't  under 
stand  about  that  valentine.  "Hannah  has  got 
it  and  I  have  seen  it,"  said  he,  "but  she  took 
it  out  of  the  envelope  and  made  a  little  silk 
case  for  it  with  two  doves  and  a  sprig  of  myrtle 
embroidered  on  the  outside,  like  one  her  cousin 
had,  and  the  envelope  is  gone,  but  I  must  have 
written  Hannah  instead  of  Flora.  Sometimes 
it  seems  supernatural  when  I  look  at  Hannah 
and  see  what  a  dear  good  wife  I've  got,"  said 
Jonty. 

Well,  we  never  discovered  the  mystery  of 
that  valentine  till  Grandma  died  two  years  after 
Jonty  and  Hannah  were  married.  She  had  a 
shock  and  lost  her  speech,  and  lay  so  five  days 
before  she  died.  One  day,  about  a  week  after 
the  funeral,  Jonty  was  lookin'  at  her  old  Bible, 
the  one  she  always  kept  in  her  room  on  the 
little  stand  by  her  bed,  and  he  gave  a  great 
start.  "What  is  it,  Jonty?"  said  I.  Hannah 
was  out  in  the  kitchen  getting  supper,  and  we 
were  in  the  sitting-room. 

"Look  here,  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Jonty, 
316 


FLORA   AND    HANNAH 

And  I  looked,  and  there  in  Grandma's  Bible, 
pinned  to  the  chapter  of  Proverbs  where  it 
says  that  "The  heart  of  her  husband  can 
safely  trust  in  her,"  was  the  envelope  of  the 
old  valentine  directed  to  Flora. 


A    NEW-YEAR'S    RESOLUTION 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  RESOLUTION 


M 


Y  brother  Lemuel  married  Mehitable  Pierce 
when  he  was  quite  along  in  years.  Nobody 
thought  he'd  ever  get  married  at  all,  any  more'n 
my  brother  Reuben  and  Silas.  The  three  had 
lived  together  and  kept  bachelors'  hall  ever 
since  our  mother  died.  I  was  married  and 
away  from  home  long  before  she  died.  I  didn't 
know  how  they  would  get  along  at  first,  but 
all  of  the  boys  had  been  used  to  helpin'  ma  a 
good  deal,  and  they  were  real  handy,  and  when 
I  asked  if  they  wasn't  goin'  to  have  a  house 
keeper,  they  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  They  said 
they  wasn't  goin'  to  have  no  strange  women 
round  in  ma's  place,  nohow.  So  Silas  he  took 
hold  and  did  the  washin'  and  ironin',  and 
Reuben  did  the  sweepin',  and  Lemuel  (he  was 
the  youngest,  next  to  me)  did  the  cookin'.  He 
could  cook  a  dinner  equal  to  any  woman,  and 
321 


THE   WINNING    LADY 

his  pies  beat  mine.  My  husband  said  so,  and  I 
had  to  give  in  that  they  did. 

Well,  they  seemed  to  get  along  so  nice,  and 
none  of  'em  had  ever  seemed  to  think  much 
about  the  girls,  not  even  when  they  was  boys, 
that  I  must  say  I  was  astonished  when  Lemuel 
he  up  and  got  married  to  Mehitable  Pierce.  She 
was  a  little  along  in  years,  too,  rather  more  so 
than  Lemuel,  and  a  dreadful  smart  piece.  She 
was  good-lookin'  and  she  had  property,  but  she 
was  dreadful  smart  and  up  an'  comin'.  I  could 
never  see  how  Lemuel  ever  got  the  courage  to 
ask  her  to  have  him;  he  was  always  a  kind  of 
mild-spoken  little  fellow.  Reuben  he  declared 
he  didn't.  He  vowed  that  Mehitable  asked 
him  herself.  He  said  he  knew  it  for  a  fact, 
and  he  said  it  with  the  tears  runnin'  down  his 
cheeks.  Reuben  was  the  oldest,  and  he'd  al 
ways  been  terrible  fond  of  Lemuel.  "That 
poor  boy  would  never  have  got  in  sech  a  fix 
ef  that  woman  hadn't  up  an'  asked  him,  an' 
he  didn't  have  spunk  enough  to  say  no,"  said 
Reuben,  and  he  swallered  hard. 

Mehitable  had  a  nice  house  of  her  own  that 

her  father  left  her,  all  furnished  and  everything, 

so,  of  course,  Lemuel  he  went  to  live  with  her, 

and  Mehitable 's  house  was  pretty  near  where  I 

322 


A  NEW-YEAR'S    RESOLUTION 

lived,  so  I  could  see  everything  that  was  goin' 
on.  It  wa'n't  very  long  before  I  said  to  Hannah 
Morse,  my  husband's  old-maid  sister  that  lives 
with  us  and  teaches  school,  that  I  believed 
Lemuel  was  henpecked,  though  I  hadn't  any- 
thin'  against  Mehitable. 

"I  don't  see  what  else  anybody  that  married 

Mehitable  Pierce  would  expect,"  said  Hannah. 

'She   spoke  real   sharp   for   her.     I've  always 

kind  of  wondered  if  Hannah  would  have  had 

Lemuel  if  he'd  asked  her. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  hope  poor  Lemuel  will  be 
happy.  He's  always  been  such  a  good,  mild, 
willin'  boy  that  it  does  seem  a  pity  for  him  to 
be  rode  over  roughshod,  and  have  all  the  will 
he  ever  did  have  trodden  into  the  dust." 

"Well,  that  is  what  will  happen,  or  I'll  miss 
my  guess,"  said  Hannah  Morse.  For  a  long 
while  I  thought  she  was  right.  It  was  really 
pitiful  to  see  Lemuel.  He  didn't  have  no  more 
liberty  nor  will  of  his  own  than  a  five-year-old 
boy,  and  not  so  much.  Mehitable  wouldn't 
let  him  do  this  and  that,  and  if  there  was 
anythin'  he  wanted  to  do  she  was  set  against 
it,  and  he'd  always  give  right  in.  Many's  the 
time  Lemuel  has  run  over  to  my  house,  and  his 
wife  come  racin'  to  the  fence  and  screamed  after 
323 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

him  to  come  home,  and  he'd  start  up  as  scared 
as  he  could  be.  And  many's  the  time  I've  been 
in  there,  and  he  started  to  go  out,  and  she'd 
tell  him  to  set  down,  and  he'd  set  without  a 
murmur. 

Mehitable  she  bought  all  his  clothes,  an'  she 
favored  long-tailed  coats,  and  he  bein'  such  a 
short  man  never  looked  well  in  'em,  and  she 
wouldn't  let  him  have  store  shirts  and  collars, 
but  made  them  herself,  and  she  didn't  have 
very  good  patterns:  she  used  her  father's  old 
ones,  and  he  wasn't  no  such  built  man  as 
Lemuel,  and  I  know  he  suffered  everything, 
both  in  his  pride  an'  his  feelin's.  Lemuel  began 
to  look  real  downtrod.  He  didn't  seem  like 
half  such  a  man  as  he  did,  and  the  queerest 
thing  about  it  was  Mehitable  didn't  'pear 
to  like  the  work  of  her  own  hands,  so  to 
speak. 

One  day  she  talked  to  me  about  it.  "I 
dun'no'  what  'tis,"  said  she,  "but  Lemuel  he 
don't  seem  to  have  no  go  ahead  and  no  am 
bition  and  no  will  of  his  own.  He  tries  to 
please  me,  but  it  don't  seem  as  if  he  had  grit 
enough  even  for  that.  Sometimes  I  think  he 
ain't  well,  but  I  dun'no'  what  ails  him.  I've 
been  real  careful  of  him.  He's  worn  thick 
324 


A  NEW-YEAR'S   RESOLUTION 

flannels,  and  he's  had  wholesome  victuals;  I 
ain't  never  let  him  have  pie." 

''Lemuel  was  always  dreadful  fond  of  pie," 
said  I.  I  felt  kind  of  sorry,  for  I  remembered 
how  fond  poor  Lemuel  had  always  been  of 
mother's  pies,  and  what  good  ones  he  used  to 
make  himself. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mehitable.  "He  wanted 
to  make  some  himself,  when  we  were  first  mar 
ried,  but  I  vetoed  that.  I  wasn't  goin'  to  have 
a  man  messin'  round  makin'  pies,  and  I  wasn't 
goin'  to  have  him  eatin'  of  'em  after  they  were 
made.  Pies  ain't  good  for  him.  But  I  declare 
I  dun 'no'  what  does  make  him  act  so  kind  of 
spiritless.  I  told  him  to-day  I  thought  he'd 
better  make  a  resolution  for  the  New  Year  and 
stick  to  it,  and  see  if  it  wouldn't  put  some  spunk 
into  him." 

Pretty  soon  she  went  home.  I  could  see  she 
was  real  kind  of  troubled.  She  always  did 
think  a  good  deal  of  Lemuel,  in  spite  of  every 
thing. 

The  next  day  was  New  Year's,  and  in  the 
afternoon  Mehitable  came  in  again.  She  didn't 
have  her  sewin'  as  she  generally  did — she  was  a 
very  industrious  woman.  She  jest  sat  down 
and  begun  twisting  the  fringe  of  her  shawl  as 

325 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

if  she  was  real  nervous.  Her  face  was  puckered 
up,  too.  "I  dun 'no*  what  to  make  of  Lemuel," 
said  she,  finally. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  said  I,  kind  of 
scared. 

' '  He  says  he's  made  a  resolution  for  the  New 
Year,"  said  she,  "and  that  he's  goin'  to  keep  it." 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  said  I. 

"I  dun'no',"  said  she. 

"Well,  if  it's  a  good  one,  you  don't  care,  do 
you?"  said  I,  "and  it  couldn't  be  anythin'  but 
a  good  one  if  my  brother  made  it." 

"I  dun'no'  what  it  is,"  said  she. 

"Won't  he  tell?" 

"No,  he  won't.  I  can't  get  a  word  out  of 
him  about  it.  He  don't  act  like  himself." 

Well,  I  must  say  I  never  saw  such  a  change  as 
come  over  Mehitable  and  Lemuel  after  that. 
He  wouldn't  tell  what  his  resolution  was,  and 
she  couldn't  make  him,  though  she  almost  went 
down  on  her  knees.  It  begun  to  seem  as  if  she 
was  fairly  changin'  characters  with  Lemuel, 
though  she  had  a  spell  of  bein'  herself  more'n 
ever  at  first,  try  in'  to  force  him  to  tell  what  that 
resolution  was.  Then  she  give  that  up,  and  she 
never  asked  him  where  he  was  goin',  an'  he 
could  come  in  my  house  an'  set  jest  as  long  as 
326 


A  NEW-YEAR'S    RESOLUTION 

he  wanted  to,  and  she  bought  him  a  short-tailed 
coat  and  some  store  collars  and  shirts,  and  he 
looked  like  another  man.  He  got  to  stay  in' 
down  to  the  store  nights  an'  talkin'  politics  with 
the  other  men  real  loud.  I  heard  him  myself 
one  night,  and  I  couldn't  believe  it  was  Lemuel. 

Well,  Lemuel  he  never  gave  in,  and  he  never 
told  till  the  next  New- Year's  Day,  when  he'd 
said  he  would.  He'd  said  all  along  that  he'd 
tell  her  then.  I'd  got  most  as  curious  as 
Mehitable  myself  by  that  time,  and  New- Year's 
mornin'  I  run  over  real  early — they  wasn't 
through  breakfast.  I  knew  the  minute  I  saw 
them  that  he  hadn't  told.  He  said  he  wouldn't 
till  he  was  through  his  breakfast.  He  was  most 
through — was  finishing  up  with  a  big  piece  of 
mince  pie,  and  he'd  made  it  himself,  too.  When 
he'd  swallowed  the  last  mouthful  he  looked  up 
and  he  laughed,  real  pleasant  and  sweet,  and 
yet  with  more  manliness  than  I'd  ever  seen  in 
him. 

"S'pose  you  want  to  know  what  that  New- 
Year's  resolution  was?"  said  Lemuel. 

"I  guess  I  can  stand  it  awhile  longer,"  said 
Mehitable.  Now  the  time  had  come,  she  didn't 
want  to  act  too  eager,  but  I  showed  out  jest 
what  I  felt. 

327 


THE   WINNING   LADY 

"For  the  land's  sake,  Lemuel  Babbit,  what 
was  it?"  said  I. 

Lemuel  he  laughed  again.  "Well,  it  wasn't 
much  of  anythin',"  he  said,  in  his  gentle, 
drawlin'  way.  "I  didn't  make  no  resolution, 
really." 

"What,  Lemuel  Babbit!"  cried  Mehitable. 

"No,"  said  he;  "I  couldn't  think  of  none  to 
make,  so  I  made  a  resolution  not  to  tell  that  I 
hadn't  made  any." 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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